 | Collected poems of Henry Thoreau |  |
198
WAIT NOT TILL SLAVES PRONOUNCE THE WORD
Spes sibi quisque
Each one his own hope
Each one his own hope
Wait not till slaves pronounce the word
To set the captive free,
Be free yourselves, be not deferred,
And farewell slavery.
To set the captive free,
Be free yourselves, be not deferred,
And farewell slavery.
Ye are all slaves, ye have your price,
And gang but cries to gang.
Then rise, the highest of ye rise,
I hear your fetters clang.
And gang but cries to gang.
Then rise, the highest of ye rise,
I hear your fetters clang.
Think not the tyrant sits afar
In your own breasts ye have
The District of Columbia
And power to free the Slave.
In your own breasts ye have
The District of Columbia
And power to free the Slave.
The warmest heart the north doth breed,
Is still too cold and far,
The colored man's release must come
From outcast Africa.
Is still too cold and far,
The colored man's release must come
From outcast Africa.
Make haste & set the captive free!—
Are ye so free that cry?
The lowest depths of slavery
Leave freedom for a sigh.
Are ye so free that cry?
The lowest depths of slavery
Leave freedom for a sigh.
199
What is your whole republic worth?
Ye hold out vulgar lures,
Why will ye be disparting earth
When all of heaven is yours?
Ye hold out vulgar lures,
Why will ye be disparting earth
When all of heaven is yours?
He's governéd well who rules himself,
No despot vetoes him,
There's no defaulter steals his pelf,
Nor revolution grim.
No despot vetoes him,
There's no defaulter steals his pelf,
Nor revolution grim.
'Tis neither silver rags nor gold
'S the better currency,
The only specie that will hold
Is current honesty.
'S the better currency,
The only specie that will hold
Is current honesty.
The minister of state hath cares,
He cannot get release,
Administer his own affairs,
Nor settle his own peace,
He cannot get release,
Administer his own affairs,
Nor settle his own peace,
'Tis easier to treat with kings,
And please our country's foes,
Than treat with conscience of the things
Which only conscience knows.
And please our country's foes,
Than treat with conscience of the things
Which only conscience knows.
There's but the party of the great,
And party of the mean,
And if there is an Empire State
'Tis the upright, I ween.
And party of the mean,
And if there is an Empire State
'Tis the upright, I ween.
| Collected poems of Henry Thoreau | |