From the gods to sons of clay
If Prometheus brought the flame,
Who King Cotton can gainsay,
Should he equal honour claim?
Fire and life to millions giving,
That, without him, had no living.
And if they are one in blessing,
So in suffering they are one;
Freeze in frost and scorch in sun:
That, upon his mountain chain,
This, upon his parching plain.
Nor the wild bird's self is wanting—
Either giant's torment sore;
If Prometheus writhed, while panting
Heart and lungs the vulture tore,
So Columbia's eagle fierce,
Doth King Cotton's vitals pierce.
On those wings so widely sweeping
In its poise the bird to keep,
See, if you can see for weeping.
"North" and "South" are branded deep—
On the beak all reeking red,
On the talons blood-bespread!
But 'tis not so much the anguish
Of the wound that rends his side,
Makes this fettered giant languish,
As the thought how once, in pride,
That great eagle took its stand,
Gently on his giant hand!
How to it the meat he'd carry
In its mew to feed secure;
How he'd fling it on the quarry,
How recall it to the lure,
Make it stoop, to his caresses,
Hooded neck and jingling jesses.
And another thought is pressing,
Like hot iron on his brain—
Millions that would fain be blessing,
Ban, e'en now, King Cotton's name.
Oh, that here those hands are bound,
Which should scatter wealth around!
"Not this Eagle's screaming smothers
That sad sound across the sea—
Wailing babes and weeping mothers,
Wailing, weeping, wanting me.
Hands that I would fain employ,
Hearts that I would fill with joy!
"I must writhe—a giant fettered,—
While those millions peak and pine;
By my wealth their lot unbettered,
And their suffering worse than mine.
For they know that I would fain
Help their need, were't not my chain!
"But I know not where to turn me
For relief from bonds and woe;
Frosts may pinch and suns may burn me,
But for rescue—none I know,
Save the millions I have fed,
Should they rise for lack of bread—