Oft, in the chilly night, <br />Ere slumber's chain has bound me, <br />When all her silvery light <br />The moon is pouring round me, <br />Beneath her ray, <br />I kneel and pray, <br />That God would give some token, <br />That Slavery's chains, <br />On southern plains, <br />Shall all, ere long, be broken. <br />Yes, in the chilly night, <br />Though Slavery's chain has bound me, <br />Kneel I, and feel the might <br />Of God's right arm around me. <br /> <br /> <br />When, at the driver's call, <br />In cold or sultry weather, <br />We slaves, both great and small, <br />Turn out to toil together, <br />I feel like one, <br />From whom the sun <br />Of hope has long departed, <br />And morning's light, <br />And weary night <br />Still find me broken-hearted. <br />Thus when the chilly breath <br />Of night is sighing round me, <br />Kneel I, and wish that Death, <br />In his cold chain, had bound me.<br /><br />John Pierpont<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/oft-in-the-chilly-night/
