To strike the gyves from of his fettered hands?
Who'd be a slave, and cringe, and bow the knee,
And kiss the hand that steals his liberty?
Behold the bird that flits from bough to bough;
What though at times the wintry blasts may blow,—
Happier it feels, half frozen in its nest,
Than caged, though fed and fondled and caressed.
'Tis said, 'on Briton's shore no slave shall dwell,'
But have you heard not the harsh clanging bell,
Or the discordant whistles' yelling voice,