[[Listen]] [[PDF]] [[Lilypond]]
Joy to the pleasant land we love,
The land our fathers trod!
Joy to the land for which they won
"Freedom to worship God."
For peace on all its sunny hills,
On every mountain broods,
And sleeps by all its gushing rills,
And all its mighty floods.
The wife sits meekly by the hearth,
Her infant child beside;
The father on his noble boy
Looks with a fearless pride.
The grey old man, beneath the tree,
Tales of his childhood tells;
And sweetly in the hush of morn
Peal out the Sabbath bells.
And we are free—but is there not
One blot upon our name?
Is our proud record written fair
Upon the scroll of fame?
Our banner floateth by the shore,
Our flag upon the sea;
But when the fettered slave is loosed,
We shall be truly free!
The Freed Slave.
Yet once again, once more again,
My bark bounds o'er the wave;
They know not, who ne'er clanked the chain,
What 'tis to be a slave:
To sit alone, beside the wood,
And gaze upon the sky:
This may, indeed, be solitude,
But 'tis not slavery.
Fatigued with labor's noontide task,
To sigh in vain for sleep;
Or faintly smile, our griefs to mask,
When 't would be joy to weep;
To court the shade of leafy bower,
Thirst for the freedom wave,
But to obtain denied the power—
This is to be a slave!
Son of the sword! on honor's field
'Tis thine to find a grave;
Yet, when from life's worst ill 'twould shield,
It comes not to the slave.
The lightsome to the heavy heart,
The laugh changed to the sigh;
To live from all we love apart—
Oh! this is slavery.