All hush their ills to rest,
No end to my unceasing sorrows find:
And still the sad account swells day by day;
For, since these thoughts on my lorn spirit prey,
I see the tenth year roll;
Nor hope of freedom springs in my desponding soul.
Thus, as I vent my bursting bosom’s pain!
Lo! from their yoke I see the oxen freed—
Slow moving homeward o’er the furrowed plain:
Why to my sorrow is no pause decreed?