And brave Toussaint to freedom called,
From Hayti’s vine-clad hill.
Write when, in these, our later days,
Earth’s noble ones are named,
We have a roll of honor, too,
Of which we’re not ashamed;
If, for the errors of the past,
In chains did we atone,
God, from our race’s sepulchre,
Hath rolled away the stone.