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.
Bible Defence of Slavery
Take sackcloth of the darkest dye,
And shroud the pulpits round!
Servants of Him that cannot lie,
Sit mourning on the ground.
Let holy horror blanch each cheek,
Pale every brow with fears:
And rocks and stones, if ye could speak,
Ye well might melt to tears!
Let sorrow breathe in every tone,
In every strain ye raise;
Insult not God’s majestic throne
With th’ mockery of praise.
A “reverend” man, whose light should be
The guide of age and youth,
Brings to the shrine of Slavery
The sacrifice of truth!
For the direst wrong by man imposed,
Since Sodom’s fearful cry,
The word of life has been unclosed,
To give your God the lie.
Oh! when ye pray for heathen lands,
And plead for their dark shores,
Remember Slavery’s cruel hands
Make heathens at your doors!
Ethiopia
Yes! Ethiopia yet shall stretch
Her bleeding hands abroad;
Her cry of agony shall reach
The burning throne of God,
The tyrant’s yoke from off her neck,
His fetters from her soul,
The mighty hand of God shall break,
And spurn the base control.
Redeemed from dust and freed from chains,
Her sons shall lift their eyes;
From cloud-capt hills and verdant plains
Shall shouts of triumph rise.
Upon her dark, despairing brow,
Shall play a smile of peace;
For God shall bend unto her woe,
And bid her sorrows cease.
’Neath sheltering vines and stately palms
Shall laughing children play,
And aged sires with joyous psalms
Shall gladden every day.
Secure by night, and blest by day.
Shall pass her happy hours;
Nor human tigers hunt for prey
Within her peaceful bowers.
Then, Ethiopia! stretch, oh! stretch
Thy bleeding hands abroad;
Thy cry of agony shall reach
And find redress from God.
The Drunkard’s Child
He stood beside his dying child,
With a dim and bloodshot eye;
They’d won him from the haunts of vice
To see his first-born die.
He came with a slow and staggering tread,
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