Gleanings of quiet hours / Priscilla Jane Thompson [electronic text]

ADDRESS TO ETHIOPIA.

OH, ill-starred Ethiop'an— My weak and trampled race! With fathomless emotion, Thy dismal path I trace.

Thy bright and stalwart, swarthy, son Thy meek-eyed daughters, fair, I trace through centuries bygone, Of misery and despair.

Thy fathers' fathers, long were taught Nay, forced by tyrants, bold, To worship at a mortal shrine, With humble heart and soul.

So long hath slav'ry's blasting hand, O'er thee its power swayed, That now, though freedom sweet is thine, I see thee cowed and dazed.

The sin is at thy tyrant's door; The curse is at thine own; And e'er will rest upon thy head, Till thou wilt tear it down.

Oh! rouse thy slumb'ring manhood, strong! A foothold boldly earn; And scorn thy brothers' patronage, When he's thy fellow-worm.

Tear down those idols thou hast built, In weakness to the proud! Knowest thou that in thy blindness, deep, Thou desecrate thy God?

Oh! rise in union great and strong! Hold each black brother, dear; And form a nation of thine own, Despite thy tyrant's jeers!

We need not reek in blood and groans, This is a war within; We need but conquer cow'ring self, And rise a man, with men.

What though our number may be few? Hath not the Jews long stood, In unions strong, 'mid myriads Of foes, who craved their blood?

Then, rise oh fainting Ethiopes! And gather up thy strength; For, by repeated efforts, strong, Thou'lt gain thy ground at length.

The same God hast created thee, Who did thy fairer brother; Thinkst thou, that in His justice, great, He'd prize one 'bove the other?