Ye Spirits Of The Free
Ye spirits of the free,
Can ye forever see
Your brother man
A yoked and scourged slave
Chains dragging to his grave,
And raise no hand to save?
Say if you can.
In pride and pomp to roll,
Shall tyrants from the soul
God’s image tear,
And call the wreck their own,—
While, from the eternal throne,
They shut the stifled groan
And bitter prayer?
Shall he a slave be bound,
Whom God hath doubly crowned
Creation’s lord ?
Shall men of Christian name,
Without a blush of shame
Profess their tyrant claim
From God’s own word ?
No! at the battle cry,
A host prepared to die,
Shall arm for fight—
But not with martial steel,
Grasped with a murderous zeal ;
No arms their foes shall fell,
But love and light.
Firm on Jehovah’s laws,
Strong in their righteous cause,
They march to save.
And vain the tyrant’s mail,
Against their battle—hail,
Till cease the woe and wail
Of tortured slave !
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Related quotes
The Grey Monk
I die I die the Mother said
My Children die for lack of Bread
What more has the merciless Tyrant said
The Monk sat down on the Stony Bed
The blood red ran from the Grey Monks side
His hands and feet were wounded wide
His Body bent his arms & knees
Like to the roots of ancient trees
His eye was dry no tear could flow
A hollow groan first spoke his woe
He trembled and shudderd upon the Bedt
At length with a feeble cry he said
When God commanded this hand to write
In the studious hours of deep midnight
He told me the writing I wrote should provet
The Bane of all that on Earth I lovd
My Brother starvd between two Walls
His Childrens Cry my Soul appalls
I mockd at the wrack and griding chain
My bent body mocks their torturing pain
Thy Father drew his sword in the North
With his thousands strong he marched forth
Thy Brother has armd himself in Steel
To avenge the wrongs thy Children feel
But vain the Sword and vain the Bow
They never can work Wars overthrow
The Hermits Prayer and the Widows tear
Alone can free the World from fear
For a Tear is an Intellectual Thing
And a Sigh is the Sword of an Angel King
And the bitter groan of the Martyrs woe
Is an Arrow from the Almighties Bow
The hand of Vengeance found the Bed
To which the Purple Tyrant fled
The iron hand crushd the Tyrants head
And became a Tyrant in his stead
poem by William Blake from Songs and Ballads (1794)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Christian Slave
A CHRISTIAN! going, gone!
Who bids for God's own image? for his grace,
Which that poor victim of the market-place
Hath in her suffering won?
My God! can such things be?
Hast Thou not said that whatsoe'er is done
Unto Thy weakest and Thy humblest one
Is even done to Thee?
In that sad victim, then,
Child of Thy pitying love, I see Thee stand;
Once more the jest-word of a mocking band,
Bound, sold, and scourged again!
A Christian up for sale!
Wet with her blood your whips, o'ertask her frame,
Make her life loathsome with your wrong and shame, Her patience shall not fail!
A heathen hand might deal
Back on your heads the gathered wrong of years:
But her low, broken prayer and nightly tears,
Ye neither heed nor feel.
Con well thy lesson o'er,
Thou prudent teacher, tell the toiling slave
No dangerous tale of Him who came to save
The outcast and the poor.
But wisely shut the ray
Of God's free Gospel from her simple heart,
And to her darkened mind alone impart
One stern command, Obey!3
So shalt thou deftly raise
The market price of human flesh; and while
On thee, their pampered guest, the planters smile,
Thy church shall praise.
Grave, reverend men shall tell
From Northern pulpits how thy work was blest,
While in that vile South Sodom first and best,
Thy poor disciples. sell.
Oh, shame! the Moslem thrall,
Who, with his master, to the Prophet kneels,
While turning to the sacred Kebla feels
His fetters break and fall.
Cheers for the turbaned Bey
Of robber-peopled Tunis! he hath torn
The dark slave-dungeons open, and hath borne
Their inmates into day:
But our poor slave in vain.
Turns to the Christian shrine his aching eyes;
Its rites will only swell his market price,
And rivet on his chain.
God of all right! how long
Shall priestly robbers at Thine altar stand,
Lifting in prayer to Thee, the bloody hand
And haughty brow of wrong?
Oh, from the fields of cane,
From the low rice-swamp, from the trader's cell;
From the black slave-ship's foul and loathsome hell,
And coffle's weary chain;
Hoarse, horrible, and strong,
Rises to Heaven that agonizing cry,
Filling the arches of the hollow sky,
How long, O God, how long?
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Right On
Ho! children of the brave,
Ho! freemen of the land,
That hurl'd into the grave
Oppression's bloody band;
Come on, come on, and joined be we
To make the fettered bondman free.
Let coward vassals sneak
From freedom's battle still,
Poltroons that dare not speak
But as their priests may will;
Come on, come on, and joined be we
To make the fettered bondman free.
On parchment, scroll and creed,
With human life blood red,
Untrembling at the deed,
Plant firm your manly tread;
The priest may howl, the jurist rave,
But we will free the fettered slave.
The tyrant's scorn is vain,
In vain the slanderer's breath,
We'll rush to break the chain,
E'en on the jaws of death;
Hurrah! Hurrah! right on go we,
The fettered slave shall yet be free.
Right on, in freedom's name,
And in the strength of God,
Wipe out the damning stain,
And break the oppressor's rod;
Hurrah! Hurrah! right on go we,
The fettered slave shall yet be free.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Aperotos Eros
Strong as death, and cruel as the grave,
Clothed with cloud and tempest's blackening breath,
Known of death's dread self, whom none outbrave,
Strong as death,
Love, brow-bound with anguish for a wreath,
Fierce with pain, a tyrant-hearted slave,
Burns above a world that groans beneath.
Hath not pity power on thee to save,
Love? hath power no pity? Nought he saith,
Answering: blind he walks as wind or wave,
Strong as death.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Slave
(carly simon/jacob brackman)
Listening for your footsteps
Just waiting like a fool
Burning with a fever
Only you can cool
The clock beside my pillow
Has ticked away the night
Like a heartbeat mocking me
Until the light
Gotta stop these thoughts about you
Gotta learn to live without you
Gotta find some freedom for this weary slave
cause Im hungry for you
And Im longing for you
And Im burning for you
I worship your opinions
I imitate your ways
I try to make you grace me
With a word of praise
However much I tell myself
That Im strong and free and brave
Im just another woman
Raised to be a slave
Slave, nothing but a slave
Mind of a slave
Body of a slave
I find I gave away the soul
That I wanted you to save
Im just another woman
Raised to be a slave
Hungry for you
And longing for you
Burning for you
And Im longing for you
Burning for you
And Im yearning for you
Longing for you
song performed by by Carly Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Slave-Auction--A Fact
Why stands she near the auction stand,
That girl so young and fair;
What brings her to this dismal place,
Why stands she weeping there?
Why does she raise that bitter cry?
Why hangs her head with shame,
As now the auctioneer's rough voice,
So rudely calls her name?
But see! she grasps a manly hand,
And in a voice so low,
As scarcely to be heard, she says,
'My brother, must I go?'
A moment's pause: then midst a wail
Of agonizing woe,
His answer falls upon the ear,
'Yes, sister, you must go!'
'No longer can my arm defend,
No longer can I save
My sister from the horrid fate
That waits her as a SLAVE!'
Ah! now I know why she is there,
She came there to be sold!
That lovely form, that noble mind,
Must be exchanged for gold!
O God! my every heart-string cries,
Dost thou these scenes behold
In this our boasted Christian land,
And must the truth be told?
Blush, Christian, blush! for e'en the dark
Untutored heathen see
Thy inconsistency, and lo!
They scorn thy God, and thee!
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Rescue The Slave
This song was composed while George Latimer, the fugitive slave, was
confined in Leverett Street Jail, Boston, expecting to be carried back
to Virginia by James B. Gray, his claimant.
Sadly the fugitive weeps in his cell,
Listen awhile to the story we tell;
Listen ye gentle ones, listen ye brave,
Lady fair! Lady fair! weep for the slave.
Praying for liberty, dearer than life,
Torn from his little one, torn from his wife,
Flying from slavery, hear him and save,
Christian men! Christian men! help the poor slave.
Think of his agony, feel for his pain,
Should his hard master e'er hold him again;
Spirit of liberty, rise from your grave,
Make him free, make him free, rescue the slave.
Freely the slave master goes where he will;
Freemen, stand ready, his wishes to fulfil,
Helping the tyrant, or honest or knave,
Thinking not, caring not, for the poor slave.
Talk not of liberty, liberty is dead;
See the slave master's whip over our head;
Stooping beneath it, we ask what he craves,
Boston boys! Boston boys! catch me my slaves.
Freemen, arouse ye, before it's too late;
Slavery is knocking, at every gate,
Make good the promise, your early days gave,
Boston boys! Boston boys! rescue the slave.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Feelings Of A Republican On The Fall Of Bonaparte
I hated thee, fallen tyrant! I did groan
To think that a most unambitious slave,
Like thou, shouldst dance and revel on the grave
Of Liberty. Thou mightst have built thy throne
Where it had stood even now: thou didst prefer
A frail and bloody pomp which Time has swept
In fragments towards Oblivion. Massacre,
For this I prayed, would on thy sleep have crept,
Treason and Slavery, Rapine, Fear, and Lust,
And stifled thee, their minister. I know
Too late, since thou and France are in the dust,
That Virtue owns a more eternal foe
Than Force or Fraud: old Custom, legal Crime,
And bloody Faith the foulest birth of Time.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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My Other Self
I am your slave, desire,
I am your slave, pride,
I am your slave, vice,
I am your slave, success.
Get rid of desire, desire said,
Get rid of pride, pride said,
Get rid of vices, honor said,
Get rid of competition, success said.
I will still be the slave of sin,
The slave of matter,
The slave of love,
The slave of myself.
Get rid of sin and lust,
Of matter and love,
And you will get rid of yourself,
Said my other self.
Are you proposing suicide, sadly said myself?
No, I would never do that, said my other self.
Then, what are you trying to say?
Just be yourself.
poem by Dejan Stojanovic
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Steel Meets Steel
Back in 1095, when the call to arms came
We had the red cross sown on
Sent to save the holy land and crush the infidels
With strength from above
Steel meets steel
On towards victory we march, the guiding star
Lead us to the battle field
There, the heathens were subdued, and in the end
We forced them all to yield or die
Steel meets steel
In july in 99, the holy city was stormed and won
Jerusalem was freed, we thanked the lord for our glory
We, the templars, have survived by honor and pride
And the blessing of the sword
The quest of the war, forever sung
To the sound of steel meets steel
Steel meets steel
song performed by by Hammerfall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To: W A
Or ever the knightly years were gone
With the old world to the grave,
I was a King in Babylon
And you were a Christian Slave.
I saw, I took, I cast you by,
I bent and broke your pride.
You loved me well, or I heard them lie,
But your longing was denied.
Surely I knew that by and by
You cursed your gods and died.
And a myriad suns have set and shone
Since then upon the grave
Decreed by the King in Babylon
To her that had been his Slave.
The pride I trampled is now my scathe,
For it tramples me again.
The old resentment lasts like death,
For you love, yet you refrain.
I break my heart on your hard unfaith,
And I break my heart in vain.
Yet not for an hour do I wish undone
The deed beyond the grave,
When I was a King in Babylon
And you were a Virgin Slave.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Rise Ye! Rise Ye!
Rise Ye! rise ye! noble toilers! claim your rights with fire and steel!
Rise ye! for the cursed tyrants crush ye with the hiron ’eel!
They would treat ye worse than sl-a-a-ves! they would treat ye worse than brutes!
Rise and crush the selfish tyrants! ku-r-rush them with your hob-nailed boots!
Rise ye rise ye glorious toilers
Rise ye rise ye noble toilers!
Erwake! er-rise!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! tyrants come across the waves!
Will ye yield the Rights of Labour? will ye? will ye still be sl-a-a-ves?
Rise ye! rise ye! mighty toilers! and revoke the rotten laws!
Lo! your wives go out a-washing while ye battle for the caws!
Rise ye! rise ye glorious toilers!
Rise ye! rise ye noble toilers!
Erwake! er-rise!
Our gerlorious dawn is breaking! Lo! the tyrant trembles now!
He will sta-a-rve us here no longer! toilers will not bend or bow!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! rise! behold, revenge is near;
See the leaders of the people! come an’ ’ave a pint o’ beer!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!
Rise ye! rise ye! glorious toilers!
Erwake! er-rise!
Lo! the poor are starved, my brothers! lo! our wives and children weep!
Lo! our women toil to keep us while the toilers are asleep!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers! rise and break the tyrant’s chain!
March ye! march ye! mighty toilers! even to the battle plain!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!
Rise ye! rise ye! noble toilers!
Erwake! er-r-rise!
poem by Henry Lawson
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A slave
To my lady love, I am a slave;
To my little kid, I am a slave;
To tobacco, I am a slave.
Being a slave is being in grave.
23.102011
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Acting As Your Slave
My hand asleep for hours
Waiting for the needles to begin
I have no control
They proceed to penetrate my skin
Acting as your slave I drink for amber waves
I never have embraced
Acting as your slave I drink an open grave
An epitaph defaced
Killing with compassion
She hasnt heard a word that I have said
Swallowing your passion
I can see a thousand miles ahead
Acting as your slave I drink for barricades
That I have often raised
Acting as your slave I numb my head and rave
Of epitaphs defaced
Acting as your slave I drink while she forgave
With trials left unfaced
Acting as your slave I stumble to her grave
An epitaph defaced
song performed by by Verve Pipe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Psalm 75
Power and government from God alone.
[Applied to the glorious Revolution by King William, or the happy accession of King George to the throne.]
To thee, most Holy and most High,
To thee we bring our thankful praise;
Thy works declare thy name is nigh,
Thy works of wonder and of grace.
Britain was doomed to be a slave,
Her frame dissolved, her fears were great;
When God a new supporter gave,
To bear the pillars of the state.
He from thy hand received his crown,
And sware to rule by wholesome laws;
His foot shall tread th' oppressor down,
His arm defend the righteous cause.
Let haughty sinners sink their pride,
Nor lift so high their scornful head;
But lay their foolish thoughts aside,
And own the king that God hath made.
Such honors never come by chance,
Nor do the winds promotion blow;
'Tis God the Judge doth one advance,
'Tis God that lays another low.
No vain pretence to royal birth
Shall fix a tyrant on the throne:
God, the great Sovereign of the earth,
Will rise and make his justice known.
[His hand holds out the dreadful cup
Of vengeance mixed with various plagues,
To make the wicked drink them up,
Wring out and taste the bitter dregs.
Now shall the Lord exalt the just;
And while he tramples on the proud,
And lays their glory in the dust,
My lips shall sing his praise aloud.]
poem by Isaac Watts
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Slave To Love
You're the hunter, I'm the game
Since we met, I'm not the same
The hunger in you can't be satisfied
You had a secret strategy
To take control and capture me
I lost my will and now I'm paralyzed
We made a slave to love
That's what I'll always be
A victim of your touch
You stole my soul and now I'm just a slave to love, yeah
It took one night at your hotel
To fall from grace into your spell
I can't believe you brought me to my knees
You kiss me once and love me twice
I'm on your mental sacrifice
Your target's touch was hot and aim to please
We made a slave to love
That's what I'll always be
A victim of your touch
You stole my soul and now I'm just a slave to love
Oh, I'm being used
Been held hostage for so long
Is this a one way love affair
Really wrong
We made a slave to love
That's what I'll always be
A victim of your touch
You stole my soul and now I'm just a slave to love
Just a slave to love
Just a slave to love
A victim of your touch
song performed by by Quiet Riot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Slave 2 The System
Slave) {repeat in song}
Slave, yeah {x2}
Slave 2 the system here before I was born
Slave 2 the master, workin' me till I'm worn
The only penthouse I can count on's a big black ball and chain
Slave 2 the system, the future's all arranged
Oh, U better fetch that water, boy {x2}
Slave 2 the system
Thompson's my last name, but my daddy's name is Lloyd
The farther back I trace it, the more it becomes null and void
All my life I've struggled just 2 be called a boy
Slave 2 the system, oh what a joy
Oh, U better fetch that water, boy
Hell if I do!
(Oh, U better fetch that water, boy)
Oh, I'm just a slave 2 the system
Here before I was born
Slave 2 the master, workin' me till I'm worn
Slave 2 the system
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Emancipation
Gladness in Mexico! A pealing shout,
From franchised men, goes proudly o'er her hills;
And the rich hymn is swelling up to Heaven,
Bearing the full heart's gratitude. No more
The wild bird springing upward from its nest,
Or the free waters in their gushing glee,
Seem taunting man that they are masterless,
While his proud thoughts and swelling pulse are crush'd
Beneath vile bonds. No more at eventide,
The serf stalks gloomily to seek a home,
He scarce can call his own; or goes at dawn
Unwillingly to toil:—the heavy spell,
That ‘numb'd his veins with leaden sluggishness,
Hath lost its power; and now, his glad limbs bound
Across the glorious earth, as though they were
Nought but an essence. Hear ye not the voice
Of his wild carol pour'd upon the air,
As like the woodland bird “with folded wing
He drops into his nest”—or goes at morn,
With light and eager spirit to the toil
From which no hand withholds the just reward!
Oh, it is sweet to wear a heart, whose throbs
Are stifled by no fetters—and an eye
That quails not to the mightiest! But the soul
Of him whose hand hath wrench'd the bonds of thrall
From the sad bosoms that beneath them pined,
Hath yet a higher joy!—and there is one,*
Whose name the grateful Mexican shall teach
His son to lisp, ere yet his infant lip
Hath learn'd to murmur, father.
But our land!—
The curse is on it still!—the slave-fiend stalks
Amidst our pleasant valleys and green hills;
A tyrant to the tyrants he has made;
Muttering fierce threats, and crowding on their hearts
Visions and shapes of terror, like the wild
And elfish faces that look forth at eve,
On wilder'd travellers, ‘midst the cheating shades,
And gibe and chatter at the fears they raise.
So men go crouching to the demon power,
Scarce daring e'en to syllable his name,
Lest they should waken up his smother'd rage;
And offering human victims at his shrine,
Instead of nobly standing forth, like men,
To drive him yelling from the glorious earth,
That he pollutes and blackens with his tread.
Whom call ye slaves? Are not the cravens such,
Who dare not act with justice?—Men who prate
In sweet smooth sentences, of christian love,
And with much sympathy, lament the fate
Of those from whose swoll'n limbs they will not strike
One single link, in all their weight of chains?
Strange! that the high capacities of mind,
Should be so blinded by the gleam of gold—
Till even the soul itself is valued less,
Than “so much trash as may be grasped thus.”
(*Guerrero)
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The good man, though a slave, is free; the wicked, though he reigns, is a slave, and not the slave of a single man, but — what is worse — the slave of as many masters as he has vices.
quote by Saint Augustine
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Hymn II
O HOLY FATHER! just and true
Are all Thy works and words and ways,
And unto Thee alone are due
Thanksgiving and eternal praise!
As children of Thy gracious care,
We veil the eye, we bend the knee,
With broken words of praise and prayer,
Father and God, we come to Thee.
For Thou hast heard, O God of Right,
The sighing of the island slave;
And stretched for him the arm of might,
Not shortened that it could not save.
The laborer sits beneath his vine,
The shackled soul and hand are free;
Thanksgiving! for the work is Thine!
Praise! for the blessing is of Thee!
And oh, we feel Thy presence here,
Thy awful arm in judgment bare!
Thine eye hath seen the bondman's tear;
Thine ear hath heard the bondman's prayer.
Praise! for the pride of man is low,
The counsels of the wise are naught,
The fountains of repentance flow;
What hath our God in mercy wrought?
Speed on Thy work, Lord God of Hosts!
And when the bondman's chain is riven,
And swells from all our guilty coasts
The anthem of the free to Heaven,
Oh, not to those whom Thou hast led,
As with Thy cloud and fire before,
But. unto Thee, in fear and dread,
Be praise and glory evermore.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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