O whitened head entwined in turban gay, br O kind black face, O crude, but tender hand, br O foster-mother in whose arms there lay br The race whose sons are masters of the land! br It was thine arms that sheltered in their fold, br It was thine eyes that followed through the length br Of infant days these sons. In times of old br It was thy breast that nourished them to strength. br So often hast thou to thy bosom pressed br The golden head, the face and brow of snow; br So often has it 'gainst thy broad, dark breast br Lain, set off like a quickened cameo.