How long, O gracious God! how long, Shall power lord it over right? The feeble, trampled by the strong, Remain in slavery’s gloomy night? In every region of the earth, Oppression rules with iron power; And every man of sterling worth, Whose soul disdains to cringe or cower Beneath a haughty tyrant’s nod, And, supplicating, kiss the rod That, wielded by oppression’s might, Smites to the earth his dearest right,-- The right to speak, and think, and feel, And spread his uttered thoughts abroad, To labor for the common weal, Responsible to none but God,-- Is threatened with the dungeon’s gloom, The felon’s cell, the traitor’s doom, And treacherous politicians league With hireling priests, to crush and ban All who expose their vile intrigue, And vindicate the rights of man. How long shall Afric’ raise to thee Her fettered hand, O Lord! in vain, And plead in fearful agony For vengeance for her children slain? I see the Gambia’s swelling flood, And Niger’s darkly rolling wave, Bear on their bosoms, stained with blood, The bound and lacerated slave; While numerous tribes spread near and far, Fierce, devastating, barbarous war, Earth’s fairest scenes in ruin laid, To furnish victims for that trade, Which breeds on earth such deeds of shame, As fiends might blush to hear or name. I see where Danube’s waters roll, And where the Magyar vainly strove, With valiant arm and faithful soul, In battle for the land he loved,-- A perjured tyrant’s legions tread The ground where Freedom’s heroes bled, And still the voice of those who feel Their country’s wrongs, with Austrian steel. I see the “Rugged Russian Bear,” Lead forth his slavish hordes, to war Upon the right of every State Its own affairs to regulate; To help each despot bind the chain Upon the people’s rights again, And crush beneath his ponderous paw All constitutions, rights, and law. I see in France,--O burning shame!-- The shadow of a mighty name, Wielding the power her patriot bands Had boldly wrenched from kingly hands, With more despotic pride of sway Than ever monarch dared display. The Fisher, too, whose world-wide nets Are spread to snare the souls of men, By foreign tyrants’ bayonets Established on his throne again, Blesses the swords still reeking red With the best blood his country bore, And prays for blessings on the head Of him who wades through Roman gore. The same unholy sacrifice Where’er I turn bursts on mine eyes, Of princely pomp, and priestly pride, The people trampled in the dust, Their dearest, holiest rights denied, Their hopes destroyed, their spirit crushed: But when I turn the land to view, Which claims, par excellence, to be The refuge of the brave and true, The strongest bulwark of the free, The grand asylum for the poor And trodden down of every land,