Poetry quotes

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.

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.

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?

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.

Farewell—farewell!—’twere better far That we had never met,

Than meeting one brief moment here, To part⁠—and then forget.

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

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! 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.

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?

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;

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.