We ask not that the slave should lie
As lies his master, at his ease,
Beneath a silken canopy
Or in the shade of blooming trees.

We ask not eye for eye, that all
Who forge the chain and ply the whip
Should feel their torture, while the thrall
Should wield the scourge of mastership.

We mourn not that the man should toil;
'Tis nature's need, 'tis God's decree;
But let the hand that tills the soil
Be, like the wind that fans it, free.