Bury Me In A Free Land

Make me a grave where'er you will,     In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill;     Make it among earth's humblest graves,     But not in a land where men are slaves.     I could not rest if around my grave     I heard the steps of a trembling slave;     His shadow above my silent tomb     Would make it a place of fearful gloom.     I could not rest if I heard the tread     Of a coffle gang to the shambles led,     And the mother's shriek of wild despair     Rise like a curse on the trembling air.     I could not sleep if I saw the lash     Drinking her blood at each fearful gash,     And I saw her babes torn from her breast,     Like trembling doves from their parent nest.     I'd shudder and start if I heard the bay     Of bloodhounds seizing their human prey,     And I heard the captive plead in vain     As they bound afresh his galling chain.     If I saw young girls from their mother's arms     Bartered and sold for their youthful charms,     My eye would flash with a mournful flame,     My death-paled cheek grow red with shame.     I would sleep, dear friends, where bloated might     Can rob no man of his dearest right;     My rest shall be calm in any grave     Where none can call his brother a slave.     I ask no monument, proud and high,     To arrest the gaze of the passers-by;     All that my yearning spirit craves,     Is bury me not in a land of slaves.