The fairest land, the burning sun
In his broad circuit looks upon ;
The purest skies, the brightest seas.
E'er ruffled by the summer breeze :
What are they to the fettered slave?
To him his land's a living grave.

In vain tor him, the joyous spring
Sends the young eaglet wandering,
Or tempts the soaring dove on high
To cleave with sportive wing the sky,
O'er him still hangs the tyrant's brand,
Still shackles gall his palsied hand.

Is there a man of British name,
His brethren's scorn, his country's shame,
Who lives bereft of liberty.
Yet could by daring it, be free?
Holds the fair isle which rules the wave,
That monstrous thing a willing slave?

Believe it not. The spell bound mind,
Howe'er to ignorance resigned,
Has yet a longing to be free,
A lingering spark of liberty,
Though beaten down, though trampled on,
While throbs the heart 'tis never gone.