Poetry

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.

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.

Oh! speak not of heathenish darkness again, Nor tell me of lands held in error’s dread chain! Where⁠—where is the nation so erring as we, Who claim the proud name of the “home of the free”! What a throb do the lov’d ties of country awake In the heart of the exile!⁠—for time cannot break The sweet vision of home, and all he loved well, Which has thrown o’er his pathway a magical spell. Can the name of “my country”⁠—the deeds which we sing⁠— Be honored⁠—revered⁠—’midst pollution and sin? Can the names of our fathers who perished in fight, Be hallowed in story, midst slavery’s blight? When America’s standard is floating so fair, I blush that the impress of falsehood is there; That oppression and mockery dim the high fame, That seeks from all nations a patriot’s name. Speak not of “my country,” unless she shall be, In truth, the bright home of the “brave and the free!” Till the dark stain of slavery is washed from her hand, A tribute of homage she cannot command.

Oh, woman, woman, in thy brightest hour Of conscious worth, of pride, of conscious power, Oh, nobly dare to act a Christian’s part, That well befits a lovely woman’s heart! Dare to be good, as thou canst dare be great; Despise the taunts of envy, scorn and hate; Our “skins may differ,” but from thee we claim A sister’s privilege, in a sister’s name.

We are thy sisters⁠—God has truly said, That of one blood, the nations he has made. Oh, Christian woman, in a Christian land, Canst thou unblushing read this great command? Suffer the wrongs which wring our inmost heart To draw one throb of pity on thy part; Our “skins may differ,” but from thee we claim A sister’s privilege, in a sister’s name.

Oh, woman!⁠—though upon thy fairer brow The hues of roses and of lilies glow⁠— These soon must wither in their kindred earth, From whence the fair and dark have equal birth. Let a bright halo o’er thy virtues shed A lustre, that shall live when thou art dead; Let coming ages learn to bless thy name Upon the altar of immortal fame.

Her master, on leaving the Island for a permanent residence in Louisiana, cruelly separated the girl from her parent forever.

Mother, I leave thee⁠—thou hast been, Through long, long years of pain, The only hope my fond heart knew; Or e’er shall know again.

The sails are set⁠—my master waits To bear me far from thee; I linger⁠—can I give thee up, And cross the fearful sea?

Oh, let me gaze! how bright it seems, As busy memory flies, To view those scenes of other days, Beneath those bright blue skies.

The little hut where I have played In childhood’s fearless hours⁠— The murmuring stream⁠—the mossy bank, Where I have gathered flowers.

I knew not then I was a slave, Or that another’s will, Save thine, could bend my spirit’s pride; Or bid my lips be still.

Who now will soothe me at my toil, Or bathe my weary brow? Or shield me when the heavy lash Is raised to give the blow?

Thy fond arms press me⁠—and I feel Thy tears upon my cheek; Tears are the only language now, A mother’s love can speak.

Think of me, mother, as I bend My way across the sea; And midst thy tears, a blessing waft, To her who prays for thee.