So sing our dusky gondoliers; And with a secret pain, And smiles that seem akin to tears, We hear the wild refrain.
We dare not share the negro's trust, Nor yet his hope deny; We only know that God is just, And every wrong shall die.
Rude seems the song; each swarthy face, Flame-lighted, ruder still: We start to think that hapless race Must shape our good or ill;
That laws of changeless justice bind Oppressor with oppressed; And, close as sin and suffering joined, We march to Fate abreast.
Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall be Our sign of blight or bloom, The Vala-song of Liberty, Or death-rune of our doom!