Poetry

The Grave of the Slave

The cold storms of winter shall chill him no more,
His woes and his sorrows, his pains are all o’er;
The sod of the valley now covers his form,
He is safe in his last home, he feels not the storm.

The poor slave is laid all unheeded and lone,
Where the rich and the poor find a permanent home;
Not his master can rouse him with voice of command;
He knows not, he hears not, his cruel demand.

Not a tear, not a sigh to embalm his cold tomb,
No friend to lament him, no child to bemoan;
Not a stone marks the place, where he peacefully lies,
The earth for his pillow, his curtain the skies.

Poor slave! shall we sorrow that death was thy friend,
The last, and the kindest, that heaven could send?
The grave to the weary is welcomed and blest;
And death, to the captive, is freedom and rest.

The Slave Girl’s Address to Her Mother

Oh! mother, weep not, though our lot be hard,
And we are helpless—God will be our guard:
For He our heavenly guardian doth not sleep;
He watches o’er us—mother, do not weep.

And grieve not for that dear loved home no more;
Our sufferings and our wrongs, ah! why deplore?
For though we feel the stern oppressor’s rod,
Yet he must yield, as well as we, to God.

Torn from our home, our kindred and our friends,
And in a stranger’s land our days to end,
No heart feels for the poor, the bleeding slave;
No arm is stretched to rescue, and to save.

Oh! ye who boast of Freedom’s sacred claims,
Do ye not blush to see our galling chains;
To hear that sounding word—“that all are free”—
When thousands groan in hopeless slavery?

Upon your land it is a cruel stain—
Freedom, what art thou?—nothing but a name.
No more, no more! Oh God, this cannot be;
Thou to thy children’s aid wilt surely flee:
In thine own time deliverance thou wilt give,
And bid us rise from slavery, and live.

Past Joys

The friends we’ve loved, the home we’ve left,
Will ofttimes claim a tear;
And though of these we are bereft,
Still memory makes them dear.

And deep we feel each trifling ill,
Each sorrow of the soul:
But care we for the painful thrill,
That o’er some breasts doth roll?

Poor Afric’s son—ah! he must feel
How hard it is to part
From all he lov’d—from all that life
Had twined around his heart.

His is a sorrow deeper far,
Than all that we can show;
His is a lasting grief, o’er which
No healing balm can flow.

The mother, wife, or child he loved,
He ne’er shall see again;
To him they’re lost—ay, dead indeed:
What for him doth remain?

A feeling of deep wretchedness
Comes o’er his troubled soul;
The thoughts of home—of other days,
In painful visions roll.

His home—ah! that lov’d name recalls
All that was dear to him;
But these were scenes he’ll know no more—
He only feels they’ve been.

Prayer

This sacred right none are denied,
Which makes the soul to Christ allied;
Man bends the heart and bows the knee,
And knows in prayer that he is free.

Yes, free to ask of Him, whate’er
The fainting heart alone can cheer;
To worship at that holy shrine,
Where beams thy Spirit, Lord, divine.

And Afric’s children they are free,
To breathe their vows, their prayers to Thee;
With thought of future joy and gain,
The slave forgets his grief and pain;

Forgets awhile his slavish fear;
Forgets—that fetters bind him here;
And in that sweet communion rest
His hopes, his fears—for he is blest.

The Slave

Our sires who once in freedom’s cause,
Their boasted freedom sought and won,
For deeds of glory gained applause,
When patriot feelings led them on.
And can their sons now speak with pride,
Of rights for which they bled and died—
Or while the captive is oppressed,
Think of the wrongs they once redress’d?
Oh, surely they have quite forgot,
That bondage once had been their lot;
The sweets of freedom now they know,
They care not for the captive’s woe.
The poor wronged slave can bear no part
In feelings dearest to his heart;
He cannot speak on freedom’s side,
Nor dare he own a freeman’s pride,
His soul is dark, ay dark as night,
O’er which is shed no gleam of light;
A cloud of error, doubt and fear,
O’er him is ever hovering near;
And sad and hard his lot must be,
To know that he can ne’er be free;
To feel that his is doomed to be
A life, and death, of slavery.
But will not justice soon arise,
And plead the cause of the despised?
For oh! my country, must it be,
That they still find a foe in thee?

The Farewell

Farewell!—but thou wilt soon forget
The stranger thou hast seen,
And in the gay and busy world,
Forget that I have been.

And thought of me will scarce intrude,
When other forms are nigh;
Who, decked in beauty’s bright array,
Shall pass before thine eye.

Another’s lips will charm thee then,
Another’s voice will praise;
Thou wilt forget we e’er have met
In past and happy days.

And thou wilt scarcely deign to think
Of friendship’s early dream,
Or cast one glance, in after years,
On this poor offering.

Farewell—farewell!—’twere better far
That we had never met,
Than meeting one brief moment here,
To part—and then forget.

A Mother’s Grief

There lies the sole remaining hope
Of all my coming years;
The treasure of my widow’d heart,
The tie that bound me here.

He was the last—the loveliest,
And can you blame my grief,
Or chide the falling tears which give
This bursting heart relief?

There’s nothing left for me to love
This earth holds nothing dear,
Since he, my sweet—my gentle one,
Is now no longer here.

My poor fond heart had counted on
Such bliss, in future hours!
And I had dreamed his coming days
Here strewed with fairy flowers!

Perchance ’twas wrong to love him thus,
And I have been chastised—
For He who gave him to my trust,
Hath called him to the skies.

He was too dear—oh! far too dear,
The idol of my soul—
Then blame me not—this burst of grief
I cannot now control.