Gaze on thy liberator, Afric's sons!
Look upon that kindly beaming face,
See, through his veins the premonition runs!
In his form its tremor one may trace.
He feels the greatness of the act performed.
'Twas so small a thing--the stroke of a pen
Merely, though the cannons loudly stormed,
And the scream of shell didst fill the air, when
The deed was done. Still, above all he heard
The clank of the myriad chains that fell;
The heart of the nation by it was stirred.
And what if it should be his own death-knell!
To him 'twas not an unwelcome sound.
'Tis a glory to be a martyr crowned.
