Sun, from thy bed in the sea,
Each morning I see thee arise;
But what is thy glory to me,
Whose days are but measured by sighs?
The fringe of thy robe I behold
Spread warm o'er the quivering wave,
But feel all is cheerless and cold,
And night, in the breast of the slave.
When nature from slumber springs up,
And the freshness of morning regains,
I see all the gall in my cup;
I feel all the weight of my chains.
For not till thy splendor, bright sun,
Has faded and gone, in the west,
From toil ere thy rising begun
Is the spirit-worn bondman to rest.
Shall He, whose pure image thou art,
Be named by the impious tongue
Of one, who can banquet his heart
On groans from humanity wrung?
Can He, who is brightness divine,
Whose wings waft but healing and balm,
Behold a hand raised at his shrine,
With slavery marked on its palm?
Make haste, thou great day of account,
When the Light of the world shall appear,
Recalling his word on the mount,
And avenging the sufferer here!
Speed! speed, star of day, through the route.