fear the oppressor’s iron hand

The same unholy sacrifice
Where’er I turn bursts on mine eyes,
Of princely pomp, and priestly pride,
The people trampled in the dust,
Their dearest, holiest rights denied,
Their hopes destroyed, their spirit crushed:
But when I turn the land to view,
Which claims, par excellence, to be
The refuge of the brave and true,
The strongest bulwark of the free,
The grand asylum for the poor
And trodden down of every land,
Where they may rest in peace, secure,
Nor fear the oppressor’s iron hand,-
Worse scenes of rapine, lust, and shame,

-James Monroe Whitfield, How Long1853


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