Poetry

Eliza Harris

Like a fawn from the arrow, startled and wild,
A woman swept by us, bearing a child;
In her eye was the night of a settled despair,
And her brow was o’ershaded with anguish and care.

She was nearing the river—in reaching the brink,
She heeded no danger, she paused not to think;
For she is a mother—her child is a slave—
And she’ll give him his freedom, or find him a grave!

It was a vision to haunt us, that innocent face—
So pale in its aspect, so fair in its grace;
As the tramp of the horse and the bay of the hound,
With the fetters that gall, were trailing the ground!

She was nerv’d by despair, and strengthened by woe,
As she leap’d o’er the chasms that yawn’d from below;
Death howl’d in the tempest, and rav’d in the blast,
But she heard not the sound till the danger was past.

Oh! how shall I speak of my proud country’s shame?
Of the stains on her glory, how give them their name?
How say that her banner in mockery waves—
Her “star-spangled banner”—o’er millions of slaves?

How say that the lawless may torture and chase
A woman whose crime is the hue of her face?
How the depths of the forest may echo around
With the shrieks of despair, and the bay of the hound?

With her step on the ice, and her arm on her child,
The danger was fearful, the pathway was wild;
But, aided by Heaven, she gained a free shore,
Where the friends of humanity open’d their door.

So fragile and lovely, so fearfully pale,
Like a lily that bends to the breath of the gale,
Save the heave of her breast, and the sway of her hair,
You’d have thought her a statue of fear and despair.

In agony close to her bosom she press’d
The life of her heart, the child of her breast:—
Oh! love from its tenderness gathering might,
Had strengthen’d her soul for the dangers of flight.

But she’s free!—yes, free from the land where the slave
From the hand of oppression must rest in the grave;
Where bondage and torture, where scourges and chains
Have plac’d on our banner indelible stains.

The bloodhounds have miss’d the scent of her way;
The hunter is rifled and foil’d of his prey;
Fierce jargon and cursing, with clanking of chains,
Make sounds of strange discord on Liberty’s plains.

With the rapture of love and fullness of bliss,
She plac’d on his brow a mother’s fond kiss:—
Oh! poverty, danger and death she can brave,
For the child of her love is no longer a slave!

The Soul

Bring forth the balance, let the weight be gold!
We’d know the worth of a deathless soul;
Bring rubies and gems from every mine,
With the wealth of ocean, land and clime.

Bring the joys of the green, green earth,
Its playful smiles and careless mirth;
The dews of youth and flushes of health—
Bring! Oh, bring! the wide world’s wealth.

Bring the rich, rare pearls of thought
From the depths of knowledge brought,
All that human ken may know,
Searching earth and heaven o’er.

Bring the fairest rolls of fame—
Rolls unwritten with a deed of shame;
Honor’s guerdon, victory’s crown,
Robes of pride, wreaths of renown.

We’ve brought the wealth of ev’ry mine,
We’ve ransacked ocean, land and clime,
And caught the joyous smiles away,
From the prattling babe to the sire gray.

We’ve wrought the names of the noble dead,
With those who in their footsteps tread,
Here are wreaths of pride and gems of thought,
From the battle-field and study brought.

Heap high the gems, pile up the gold,
For heavy’s the weight of a deathless soul—
Make room for all the wealth of earth,
Its honors, joys, and careless mirth.

Leave me a niche for the rolls of fame—
Oh, precious, indeed, is a spotless name,
For the robes, the wreaths, and gems of thought,
Let an empty space in the seales be sought.

With care we’ve adjusted balance and scale,
Futile our efforts we’ve seen them fail;
Lighter than dust is the wealth of earth,
Weighed in the scales with immortal worth.

Could we drag the sun from his golden car,
To lay in this balance with ev’ry star,
’Twould darken the day and obscure the night—
But the weight of the balance would still be light.

The Syrophenician Woman

Joy to my bosom! rest to my fear!
Judea’s prophet draweth near!
Joy to my bosom! peace to my heart!
Sickness and sorrow before him depart!

Rack’d with agony and pain,
Writhing, long my child has lain;
Now the prophet draweth near,
All our griefs shall disappear.

“Lord!” she cried with mournful breath,
“Save! Oh, save my child from death!”
But as though she was unheard,
Jesus answered not a word.

With a purpose nought could move,
And the zeal of woman’s love,
Down she knelt in anguish wild—
“Master! save, Oh! save my child!”

“ ’Tis not meet,” the Saviour said,
“Thus to waste the children’s bread;
I am only sent to seek
Israel’s lost and scattered sheep.”

“True,” she said, “Oh gracious Lord!
True and faithful is thy word:
But the humblest, meanest, may
Eat the crumbs they cast away.”

“Woman,” said th’ astonish’d Lord,
“Be it even as thy word!
By thy faith that knows no fail,
Thou hast ask’d, and shalt prevail.”

The Slave Mother

Heard you that shriek? It rose
So wildly on the air,
It seemed as if a burden’d heart
Was breaking in despair.

Saw you those hands so sadly clasped—
The bowed and feeble head—
The shuddering of that fragile form—
That look of grief and dread?

Saw you the sad, imploring eye?
Its every glance was pain,
As if a storm of agony
Were sweeping through the brain.

She is a mother, pale with fear,
Her boy clings to her side,
And in her kirtle vainly tries
His trembling form to hide.

He is not hers, although she bore
For him a mother’s pains;
He is not hers, although her blood
Is coursing through his veins!

He is not hers, for cruel hands
May rudely tear apart
The only wreath of household love
That binds her breaking heart.

His love has been a joyous light
That o’er her pathway smiled,
A fountain gushing ever new,
Amid life’s desert wild.

His lightest word has been a tone
Of music round her heart,
Their lives a streamlet blent in one—
Oh, Father! must they part?

They tear him from her circling arms,
Her last and fond embrace:
Oh! never more may her sad eyes
Gaze on his mournful face.

No marvel, then, these bitter shrieks
Disturb the listening air:
She is a mother, and her heart
Is breaking in despair.