They may thrust him back with the arm of might, They may drench the earth with his blood-- But the best and purest of their own, Will blend with the sanguine flood.
I could tell thee more--but my strength is gone, And my breath is wasting fast; Long ere the darkness to-night has fled, Will my life from the earth have pa.s.sed: But this, the sum of all I have learned, Ere I go I will tell to thee;-- If tyrants would hope for tranquil hearts, They must let the oppressed go free.
MY CHILD IS GONE.
Music by G.W.C.
[Music]
Hark! from the winds a voice of woe, The wild Atlantic in its flow, Bears on its breast the murmur low, My child is gone!
Like savage tigers o"er their prey, They tore him from my heart away; And now I cry, by night by day-- My child is gone!
How many a free-born babe is press"d With fondness to its mother"s breast, And rocked upon her arms to rest, While mine is gone!
No longer now, at eve I see, Beneath the sheltering plantain tree, My baby cradled on my knee, For he is gone!
And when I seek my cot at night, There"s not a thing that meets my sight, But tells me that my soul"s delight, My child, is gone!
I sink to sleep, and then I seem To hear again his parting scream I start and wake--"tis but a dream-- My child _is_ gone!
Gone--till my toils and griefs are o"er, And I shall reach that happy sh.o.r.e, Where negro mothers cry no more-- My child is gone!
COMFORT IN AFFLICTION.
Words by William Leggett. Music by G.W.C.
[Music]
If yon bright stars which gem the night, Be each a blissful dwelling sphere, Where kindred spirits reunite Whom death has torn asunder here, How sweet it were at once to die, And leave this blighted orb afar!
Mix soul with soul to cleave the sky, And soar away from star to star!
But oh! how dark, how drear, how lone, Would seem the brightest world of bliss, If, wandering through each radiant one, We failed to find the loved of this!
If there no more the ties should twine, Which Death"s cold hand alone can sever, Ah! then those stars in mockery shine, More hateful as they shine forever!
It cannot be--each hope and fear, That lights the eye or clouds the brow, Proclaims there is a happier sphere Than this bleak world that holds us now!
There is a voice which sorrow hears, When heaviest weighs life"s galling chain, "Tis heaven that whispers, "dry thy tears, The pure in heart shall meet again."
The Poor Little Slave.
FROM "THE CHARTER OAK."
O pity the poor little slave, Who labors hard through all the day-- And has no one, When day is done, To teach his youthful heart to pray.
No words of love--no fond embrace-- No smiles from parents kind and dear; No tears are shed Around his bed, When fevers rage, and death is near.
None feel for him when heavy chains Are fastened to his tender limb; No pitying eyes, No sympathies, No prayers are raised to heaven for him.
Yes I will pity the poor slave, And pray that he may soon be free; That he at last, When days are past, In heaven may have his liberty.
THE BEREAVED MOTHER.
Words by Jesse Hutchinson. Air, "Kathleen O"Moore."
[Music]
Oh deep was the anguish of the slave mother"s heart, When called from her darling for ever to part; So grieved that lone mother, that heart broken mother, In sorrow and woe.
The lash of the master her deep sorrows mock, While the child of her bosom is sold on the block; Yet loud shrieked that mother, poor heart broken mother, In sorrow and woe.
The babe in return, for its fond mother cries, While the sound of their wailings together arise; They shriek for each other, the child and the mother, In sorrow and woe.
The harsh auctioneer to sympathy cold, Tears the babe from its mother and sells it for gold; While the infant and mother, loud shriek for each other, In sorrow and woe.
At last came the parting of mother and child, Her brain reeled with madness, that mother was wild; Then the lash could not smother the shrieks of that mother, Of sorrow and woe.
The child was borne off to a far distant clime, While the mother was left in anguish to pine; But reason departed, and she sank broken hearted, In sorrow and woe.
That poor mourning mother, of reason bereft, Soon ended her sorrows and sank cold in death: Thus died that slave mother, poor heart broken mother, In sorrow and woe.
Oh! list ye kind mothers to the cries of the slave; The parents and children implore you to save; Go! rescue the mothers, the sisters and brothers, From sorrow and woe.
HEARD YE THAT CRY.
From "Wind of the Winter night."
[Music]