The Chain

The Chain

Is it his daily toil that wrings

From the slave's bosom, that deep sigh?

Is it niggard fare that brings

That tear into his down-cast eye?

O, no - by toil and humble fare

Earth's sons their strength - their glory gain.

It is because the slave must wear

HIS CHAIN.

Is it the sweat, from every pore,

That starts, and glistens in the sun,

As - the young cotton bending o'er -

His naked back it falls upon?

Is it these drops that from his breast

Into the thirsty furrow fall -

That scald his soul - deny him rest,

And turn his cup of life to gall?

Nor for, that man with sweating brow

Shall eat his bread, doth God ordain;

That the slave's spirit doth not bow -

It is HIS CHAIN.

Is it that scorching sands and skies

Upon his velvet skin have set

A hue, admired in Beauty's eyes

On Genoa's silks, or polished jet?

No - for this color was his pride

When roaming o'er his native plain;

That hue, even here, can he abide,

But not HIS CHAIN.

Nor is it that his back and limbs

Are scored with many a gory gash -

That his heart bleeds, and his brain swims,

And the MAN dies beneath the lash.

For Baal's priests, on Carmel's slope,

Themselves with knives and lancets scored,

Till the blood spirited - in the hope

That HE would hear whom they adored.

And Christian flagellants, their backs

All naked to the scourge have given,

And martyrs to their stakes and racks

Have gone, of choice, in hope of Heaven.

For here there was an inward WILL!

Here spake the SPIRIT, upward tending

And, on the cloud-girt bosom still,

Hope threw her rainbow, heavenward bending!

But Will and Hope hath not the slave,

His bleeding spirit to sustain;

No; - he must drag on to the grave

HIS CHAIN.

Unattributed

3:13, p. 4

1839.05.18

From the Massachusetts Abolitionist