Thy spirit cannot wear the chain that those who live must wear,
Nor hear the sigh of them who breathe the dungeon’s noisome air,
Nor shudder at the orphan’s wail, whose mother is a slave,
Nor see her wo, whose only prayer is for the peaceful grave.
Yet hear me, spirit of my boy!—the grief that sheds no tear,
The gaping wounds of thy poor clay, call thee, this vow to hear:
That when from friends and country driven, my spell word still shall be,
Hatred of those who made thee thus, hatred of tyranny.
And oh! if e’er a day will come, when roused to hope
Our scattered bands will close once more in battle on this plain,