James Monroe Whitfield

Oh great Jehovah! God of love,
Thou monarch of the earth and sky,
Canst thou from thy great throne above
Look down with an unpitying eye? -
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America, it is to thee,
Thou boasted land of liberty, -
It is to thee I raise my song,
Thou land of blood, and crime, and wrong.
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How long, oh gracious God! how long
Shall power lord it over right?
The feeble, trampled by the strong,
Remain in slavery's gloomy night.
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Yes! strike again that sounding string,
And let the wildest numbers roll;
Thy song of fiercest passion sing -
It breathes responsive to my soul!
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In the bright dreams of early youth,
I strung my lyre, and waked a strain,
In praise of friendship, love and truth,
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I love the man whose lofty mind
On God and its own strength relies;
Who seeks the welfare of his kind,
And dare be honest though he dies;
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There's music wheresoe'er we roam -
'T is heard in ocean's crested foam,
And in the billows' deafening roar,
Which madly burst upon the shore:
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The great, the good, the just, the true,
Has yielded up his latest breath;
The noblest man our country knew,
Bows to the ghastly monster, Death
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From bright West Indies' sunny seas,
Comes, borne upon the balmy breeze,
The joyous shout, the gladsome tone,
Long in those bloody isles unknown;
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When gathered in the courts above,
Before Jehovah's burning throne,
Archangels own his boundless love,
And cast their crowns of glory down;
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In vain thou bid'st me strike the lyre,
And sing a song of mirth and glee,
Or, kindling with poetic fire,
Attempt some higher minstrelsy;
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Star of the north! whose steadfast ray
Pierces the sable pall of night,
Forever pointing out the way
That leads to freedom's hallowed light:
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Approaching night her mantle flings
O'er plain and valley, rock and glen,
When borne away on fancy's wings,
Imagination guides my pen.
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I just had turned the classic page,
With ancient lore and wisdom fraught,
Which many a hoary-headed sage
Had stamped with never-dying thought
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All hail! thou truly noble chief,
Who scorned to live a cowering slave;
Thy name shall stand on history's leaf,
Amid the mighty and the brave:
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Oh! had I that poetic lore
Bestowed upon the favored few,
To ope' Dame Nature's bounteous store,
And hold her treasures up to view,
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As with thy Album in my hand,
Upon this picture late I gazed,
With tuneful harp held in its hand,
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The gloomy night has cast a shroud
Upon the dwelling-place of men;
Hushed are the voices of the crowd,
And silence reigns o'er hill and glen.
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Another year, another year,
Unfolds its page of hope and fear!
Where, at its close, shall we appear
Who now are congregated here.
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Another year has passed away,
And brings again the glorious day
When Freedom from her slumber woke,
And broke the British tyrant's yoke -
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