Poetry

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.

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.

Make me a grave where’er you will, In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill, Make it among earth’s humblest graves, But not in a land where men are slaves.

I could not rest if around my grave I heard the steps of a trembling slave: His shadow above my silent tomb Would make it a place of fearful gloom.

I could not rest if I heard the tread Of a coffle gang to the shambles led, And the mother’s shriek of wild despair Rise like a curse on the trembling air.

I could not sleep if I saw the lash Drinking her blood at each fearful gash, And I saw her babes torn from her breast, Like trembling doves from their parent nest.

I’d shudder and start if I heard the bay Of bloodhounds seizing their human prey, And I heard the captive plead in vain As they bound afresh his galling chain.

She leaned her head upon her hand And heard the king’s decree⁠— “My lords are feasting in my halls, Bid Vashti come to me.

“I’ve shown the treasures of my house, My costly jewels rare, But with the glory of her eyes No rubies can compare.

“Adorn’d and crown’d I’d have her come, With all her queenly grace, And, ’mid my lords and mighty men, Unveil her lovely face.

“Each gem that sparkles in my crown, Or glitters on my throne, Grows poor and pale when she appears, My beautiful, my own!”

All waiting stood the chamberlains To hear the Queen’s reply, They saw her cheek grow deathly pale, But light flash’d to her eye:

“Go, tell the King,” she proudly said, “That I am Persia’s Queen, And by his crowds of merry men I never will be seen.

“I’ll take the crown from off my head And tread it ’neath my feet Before their rude and careless gaze My shrinking eyes shall meet.

“A queen unveil’d before the crowd!⁠— Upon each lip my name!⁠— Why, Persia’s women all would blush And weep for Vashti’s shame!

“Go back!” she cried, and waived her hand, And grief was in her eye: “Go, tell the King,” she sadly said, “That I would rather die.”

The Slave Mother A Tale of the Ohio

I have but four, the treasures of my soul, They lay like doves around my heart; I tremble lest some cruel hand Should tear my household wreaths apart.

My baby girl, with childish glance, Looks curious in my anxious eye, She little knows that for her sake Deep shadows round my spirit lie.

My playful boys could I forget, My home might seem a joyous spot, But with their sunshine mirth I blend The darkness of their future lot.

And thou my babe, my darling one, My last, my loved, my precious child, Oh! when I think upon thy doom My heart grows faint and then throbs wild.

The Ohio’s bridged and spanned with ice, The northern star is shining bright, I’ll take the nestlings of my heart And search for freedom by its light.

Winter and night were on the earth, And feebly moaned the shivering trees, A sigh of winter seemed to run Through every murmur of the breeze.

She fled, and with her children all, She reached the stream and crossed it o’er, Bright visions of deliverance came Like dreams of plenty to the poor.

Dreams! vain dreams, heroic mother, Give all thy hopes and struggles o’er, The pursuer is on thy track, And the hunter at thy door.