The Poet's Feeble Petition

Bewailing mid the ruthless wave,
I lift my feeble hand to thee.
Let me no longer live a slave
But drop these fetters and be free.

Why will regardless fortune sleep
Deaf to my penitential prayer,
Or leave the struggling Bard to weep,
Alas, and languish in despair?

He is an eagle void of wings
Aspiring to the mountain's height;
Yet in the vale aloud he sings
For Pity's aid to give him flight.

Then listen all who never felt
For fettered genius heretofore —
Let hearts of petrifaction melt
And bid the gifted Negro soar.