Upon my spirit rests and sings;
He sweeps my heart’s deep throbbing lyre,
Who touched Isaiah’s lips with fire.
To Plymouth Rock, ye breezes, bear
These words from me, as I would dare,
If I were free: Is not our God
Our common Father?—from the sod
He formed us all; then brothers—yes;
We’re brothers all, though some oppress,
And grind their equals in the dust.