Make me a grave where'er you will, br In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill; br Make it among earth's humblest graves, br But not in a land where men are slaves. br br I could not rest if around my grave br I heard the steps of a trembling slave; br His shadow above my silent tomb br Would make it a place of fearful gloom. br br I could not rest if I heard the tread br Of a coffle gang to the shambles led, br And the mother's shriek of wild despair br Rise like a curse on the trembling air. br br I could not sleep if I saw the lash br Drinking her blood at each fearful gash, br And I saw her babes torn from her breast, br Like trembling doves from their parent nest. br br I'd shudder and start if I heard the bay br Of bloodhounds seizing their human prey, br And I heard the captive plead in vain br As they bound afresh his galling chain. br br If I saw young girls from their mother's arms br Bartered and sold for their youthful charms, br My eye would flash with a mournful flame, br My death-paled cheek grow red with shame. br br I would sleep, dear friends, where bloated might br Can rob no man of his dearest right; br My rest shall be calm in any grave br Where none can call his brother a slave. br br I ask no monument, proud and high, br To arrest the gaze of the passers-by; br All that my yearning spirit craves, br Is bury me not in a land of slaves.