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.
The Slave Girl’s Farewell
The incident which suggested the following lines is this:—A young girl was living with her mother in one of the West Indian Islands, quite unconscious of her being a slave. 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.
A Prayer
Father, we lift the suppliant eye,
To where thou reigns’t above;
We feel that thou canst not deny
The children of thy love.
Unshaken faith, unwavering trust,
Are all that we can bring;
We are thy children, though in dust,
To thee we dare to cling.
We know that thou wilt not forsake
The poor and trembling slave;
For him the blessed Saviour spake;
And him he came to save.
We feel the chains that bind us all,
And bend us to man’s will;
But can they hold our souls enthrall’d,
Or bid our voice be still?
No:—for thy power is all supreme,
Thy word shall yet stand firm;
And master and the slave shall e’en
To thee for mercy turn.
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