Chapter 2
Brothers be brave for the pining slave, From his wife and children riven; From every vale their bitter wail Goes sounding up to Heaven. Then for the life of that poor wife, And for those children pining; O ne'er give o'er till the chains no more Around their limbs are twining.
Gloomy and damp is the low rice swamp, Where their meagre bands are wasting; All worn and weak, in vain they seek For rest, to the cool shade hasting; For drivers fell, like fiends from hell, Cease not their savage shouting; And the scourge's crack, from quivering back, Sends up the red blood spouting.
Into the grave looks only the slave, For rest to his limbs aweary; His spirit's light comes from that night, To us so dark and dreary. That soul shall nurse its heavy curse Against a day of terror, When the lightning gleam of his wrath shall stream Like fire, on the hosts of error.
Heavy and stern are the bolts which burn In the right hand of Jehovah; To smite the strong red arm of wrong, And dash his temples over; Then on amain to rend the chain, Ere bursts the vallied thunder; Right onward speed till the slave is freed-- His manacles torn asunder.
E.D.H.
THE QUADROON MAIDEN.
Words by Longfellow. Theme from the Indian Maid.
[Music]
The Slaver in the broad lagoon, Lay moored with idle sail; He waited for the rising moon, And for the evening gale.
The Planter under his roof of thatch, Smoked thoughtfully and slow; The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, He seemed in haste to go.
He said, "My ship at anchor rides In yonder broad lagoon; I only wait the evening tides, And the rising of the moon."
Before them, with her face upraised, In timid attitude, Like one half curious, half amazed, A Quadroon maiden stood.
And on her lips there played a smile As holy, meek, and faint, As lights, in some cathedral aisle, The features of a saint.
"The soil is barren, the farm is old," The thoughtful Planter said, Then looked upon the Slaver's gold, And then upon the maid.
His heart within him was at strife, With such accursed gains; For he knew whose passions gave her life, Whose blood ran in her veins.
But the voice of nature was too weak: He took the glittering gold! Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, Her hands as icy cold.
The Slaver led her from the door, He led her by the hand, To be his slave and paramour In a far and distant land.
Domestic Bliss.
BY REV. JAMES GREGG.
Domestic bliss; thou fairest flower That erst in Eden grew, Dear relic of the happy bower, Our first grand parents knew!
We hail thee in the rugged soil Of this waste wilderness, To cheer our way and cheat our toil, With gleams of happiness.
In thy mild light we travel on, And smile at toil and pain; And think no more of Eden gone, For Eden won again.
Such, Emily, the bliss, the joy By Heaven bestowed on you; A husband kind, a lovely boy, A father fond and true.
Religion adds her cheering beams, And sanctifies these ties; And sheds o'er all the brighter gleams, She borrows from the skies.
But ah! reflect; are _all_ thus blest? Hath home such charms for _all_? Can such delights as these invest Foul slavery's wretched thrall?
Can those be happy in these ties Who wear her galling chain? Or taste the blessed charities That in the household reign?
Can those be blest, whose hope, whose life, Hang on a tyrant's nod; To whom nor husband, child, nor wife Are known--yea, scarcely God?
Whose ties may all be rudely riven, At avarice' fell behest; Whose only hope of _home_ is heaven, The grave their only rest.
Oh! think of those, the poor, th' oppressed, In your full hour of bliss; Nor e'er from prayer and effort rest, While earth bears woe like this.
O PITY THE SLAVE MOTHER.
Words from the Liberator. Air, Araby's Daughter.
[Music]
I pity the slave mother, careworn and weary, Who sighs as she presses her babe to her breast; I lament her sad fate, all so hopeless and dreary, I lament for her woes, and her wrongs unredressed. O who can imagine her heart's deep emotion, As she thinks of her children about to be sold; You may picture the bounds of the rock-girdled ocean, But the grief of that mother can never be known.
The mildew of slavery has blighted each blossom, That ever has bloomed in her pathway below; It has froze every fountain that gushed in her bosom, And chilled her heart's verdure with pitiless woe: Her parents, her kindred, all crushed by oppression; Her husband still doomed in its desert to stay; No arm to protect from the tyrant's aggression-- She must weep as she treads on her desolate way.
O, slave-mother, hope! see--the nation is shaking! The arm of the Lord is awake to thy wrong! The slave-holder's heart now with terror is quaking Salvation and Mercy to Heaven belong! Rejoice, O rejoice! for the child thou art rearing, May one day lift up its unmanacled form, While hope, to thy heart, like the rain-bow so cheering, Is born, like the rain-bow, 'mid tempest and storm.
How long! O! how long!
How long will the friend of the slave plead in vain? How long e'er the Christian will loosen the chain? If he, by our efforts, more hardened should be, O Father, forgive him! we trust but in thee. That 'we're all free and equal,' how senseless the cry, While millions in bondage are groaning so nigh! O where is our freedom? equality where? To this none can answer, but echo cries, where?
O'er this stain on our country we'd fain draw a veil, But history's page will proclaim the sad tale, That Christians, unblushing, could shout 'we are free,' Whilst they the oppressors of millions could be. They can feel for themselves, for the Pole they can feel, Towards Afric's children their hearts are like steel; They are deaf to their call, to their wrongs they are blind; In error they slumber nor seek truth to find.
Though scorn and oppression on our pathway attend, Despised and reviled, we the slave will befriend; Our Father, thy blessing! we look but to thee, Nor cease from our labors till all shall be free. Should mobs in their fury with missiles assail, The cause it is righteous, the truth will prevail; Then heed not their clamors, though loud they proclaim That freedom shall slumber, and slavery reign.
THE FUGITIVE SLAVE TO THE CHRISTIAN.
Words by Elizur Wright, jr. Music arranged from Cracovienne.
[Music]
The fetters galled my weary soul,-- A soul that seemed but thrown away; I spurned the tyrant's base control, Resolved at last the man to play:--
Chorus.
The hounds are baying on my track; O Christian! will you send me back? The hounds are baying on my track; O Christian! will you send me back?
I felt the stripes, the lash I saw, Red, dripping with a father's gore; And, worst of all their lawless law, The insults that my mother bore! The hounds are baying on my track, O Christian! will you send me back?
Where human law o'errules Divine, Beneath the sheriff's hammer fell My wife and babes,--I call them mine,-- And where they suffer, who can tell? The hounds are baying on my track, O Christian! will you send me back?
I seek a home where man is man, If such there be upon this earth, To draw my kindred, if I can, Around its free, though humble hearth. The hounds are baying on my track, O Christian! will you send me back!
The Strength of Tyranny.
The tyrant's chains are only strong While slaves submit to wear them; And, who could bind them on the strong, Determined not to wear them? Then clank your chains, e'en though the links Were light as fashion's feather: The heart which rightly feels and thinks Would cast them altogether.
The lords of earth are only great While others clothe and feed them! But what were all their pride and state Should labor cease to heed them? The swain is higher than a king: Before the laws of nature, The monarch were a useless thing, The swain a useless creature.
We toil, we spin, we delve the mine, Sustaining each his neighbor; And who can hold a right divine To rob us of our labor? We rush to battle--bear our lot In every ill and danger-- And who shall make the peaceful cot To homely joy a stranger?
Perish all tyrants far and near, Beneath the chains that bind us; And perish too that servile fear Which makes the slaves they find us: One grand, one universal claim-- One peal of moral thunder-- One glorious burst in Freedom's name, And rend our bonds asunder!
THE BLIND SLAVE BOY.
Words by Mrs. Dr. Bailey. Music arranged from Sweet Afton.
[Music]
Come back to me mother! why linger away From thy poor little blind boy, the long weary day! I mark every footstep, I list to each tone, And wonder my mother should leave me alone! There are voices of sorrow, and voices of glee, But there's no one to joy or to sorrow with me; For each hath of pleasure and trouble his share, And none for the poor little blind boy will care.
My mother, come back to me! close to thy breast Once more let thy poor little blind one be pressed; Once more let me feel thy warm breath on my cheek, And hear thee in accents of tenderness speak! O mother! I've no one to love me--no heart Can bear like thine own in my sorrows a part, No hand is so gentle, no voice is so kind, Oh! none like a mother can cherish the blind!
Poor blind one! No mother thy wailing can hear, No mother can hasten to banish thy fear; For the slave-owner drives her, o'er mountain and wild, And for one paltry dollar hath sold thee, poor child! Ah! who can in language of mortals reveal The anguish that none but a mother can feel, When man in his vile lust of mammon hath trod On her child, who is stricken and smitten of God!
Blind, helpless, forsaken, with strangers alone, She hears in her anguish his piteous moan; As he eagerly listens--but listens in vain, To catch the loved tones of his mother again! The curse of the broken in spirit shall fall On the wretch who hath mingled this wormwood and gall, And his gain like a mildew shall blight and destroy, Who hath torn from his mother the little blind boy!
SLAVE'S WRONGS.
Words by Miss Chandler. Arranged from "Rose of Allandale."
[Music]
With aching brow and wearied limb, The slave his toil pursued; And oft I saw the cruel scourge Deep in his blood imbrued; He tilled oppression's soil where men For liberty had bled, And the eagle wing of Freedom waved In mockery, o'er his head.
The earth was filled with the triumph shout Of men who had burst their chains; But his, the heaviest of them all, Still lay on his burning veins; In his master's hall there was luxury, And wealth, and mental light; But the very book of the Christian law, Was hidden from his sight.
In his master's halls there was wine and mirth, And songs for the newly free; But his own low cabin was desolate Of all but misery. He felt it all--and to bitterness His heart within him turned; While the panting wish for liberty, Like a fire in his bosom burned.
The haunting thought of his wrongs grew changed To a darker and fiercer hue, Till the horrible shape it sometimes wore At last familiar grew; There was darkness all within his heart, And madness in his soul; And the demon spark, in his bosom nursed, Blazed up beyond control.
Then came a scene! oh! such a scene! I would I might forget The ringing sound of the midnight scream, And the hearth-stone redly wet! The mother slain while she shrieked in vain For her infant's threatened life; And the flying form of the frighted child, Struck down by the bloody knife.
There's many a heart that yet will start From its troubled sleep, at night, As the horrid form of the vengeful slave Comes in dreams before the sight. The slave was crushed, and his fetters' link Drawn tighter than before; And the bloody earth again was drenched With the streams of his flowing gore.
Ah! know they not, that the tightest band Must burst with the wildest power?-- That the more the slave is oppressed and wronged, Will be fiercer his rising hour? 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 passed: 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 shore, 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]
Heard ye that cry! Twas the wail of a slave, As he sank in despair, to the rest of the grave; Behold him where bleeding and prostrate he lies, Unfriended he lived, and unpitied he died.
The white man oppressed him--the white man for gold, Made him toil amidst tortures that cannot be told; He robbed him, and spoiled him, of all that was dear, And made him the prey of affliction and fear.
But his anguish was seen, and his wailings were heard, By the Lord God of Hosts; whose vengeance deferred, Gathers force by delay, and with fury will burst, On his impious oppressor--the tyrant accurst!
Arouse ye, arouse ye! ye generous and brave, Plead the rights of the poor--plead the cause of the slave; Nor cease your exertions till broken shall be The fetters that bind him, and the slave shall be free.
Sleep on my Child.
BY R.J.H.
Sleep on, my child, in peaceful rest, While lovely visions round thee play; No care or grief has touched thy breast, Thy life is yet a cloudless day.
Far distant is my childhood's home-- No mother's smiles--no father's care! Oh! how I'd love again to roam, Where once my little playmates were!
Sleep on, thou hast not felt the chain; But though 'tis yet unmingled joy, I may not see those smiles again, Nor clasp thee to my breast, my boy.
And must I see thee toil and bleed! Thy manly soul in fetters tied; 'Twill wring thy mother's heart indeed-- Oh! would to God that I had died!
That soul God's own bright image bears-- But oh! no tongue thy woes can tell; Thy lot is cast in blood and tears, And soon these lips must say--farewell!
ZAZA--THE FEMALE SLAVE.
Words by Miss Ball. Music by G.W.C.
[Music]
O my country, my country! how long I for thee, Far over the mountain, far over the sea. Where the sweet Joliba kisses the shore, Say, shall I wander by thee never more? Where the sweet Joliba kisses the shore, Say, shall I wander by thee never more? O my country, my country! how long I for thee, Far over the mountain, far over the sea.
Say, O fond Zurima, Where dost thou stay? Say, doth another List to thy sweet lay? Say, doth the orange still Bloom near our cot? Zurima, Zurima, Am I forgot? O, my country, my country! how long I for thee, Far over the mountain, far over the sea.
Under the baobab Oft have I slept, Fanned by sweet breezes That over me swept. Often in dreams Do my weary limbs lay 'Neath the same baobab, Far, far away, O my country, my country, how long I for thee, Far over the mountain, far over the sea.
O for the breath Of our own waving palm, Here, as I languish, My spirit to calm-- O for a draught From our own cooling lake, Brought by sweet mother, My spirit to wake. O my country, my country, how long I for thee, Far over the mountain, far over the sea.
PRAYER FOR THE SLAVE.
Tune--Hamburgh.
[Music]
Oh let the pris'ner's mournful sighs As incense in thy sight appear! Their humble wailings pierce the skies, If haply they may feel thee near.
The captive exiles make their moans, From sin impatient to be free; Call home, call home, thy banished ones! Lead captive their captivity!
Out of the deep regard their cries, The fallen raise, the mourners cheer, Oh, Son of Righteousness, arise, And scatter all their doubts and fear.
Stand by them in the fiery hour, Their feebleness of mind defend; And in their weakness show thy power, And make them patient to the end.
Relieve the souls whose cross we bear, For whom thy suffering members mourn: Answer our faith's effectual prayer; And break the yoke so meekly borne!
Remembering that God is just.
Oh righteous God! whose awful frown Can crumble nations to the dust, Trembling we stand before thy throne, When we reflect that thou art just.
Dost thou not see the dreadful wrong, Which Afric's injured race sustains? And wilt thou not arise ere long, To plead their cause, and break their chains?
Must not thine anger quickly rise Against the men whom lust controls, Who dare thy righteous laws despise And traffic in the blood of souls?
THE FUGITIVE.
Words by L.M.C. Air "Bonny Doon."
[Music]
A noble man of sable brow Came to my humble cottage door, With cautious, weary step and slow, And asked if I could feed the poor; He begged if I had ought to give, To help the panting fugitive.
I told him he had fled away From his kind master, friends, and home; That he was black--a slave astray, And should return as he had come; That I would to his master give The straying villain fugitive.
He fell upon his trembling knee And claimed he was a brother man, That I was bound to set him free, According to the gospel plan; And if I would God's grace receive, That I must help the fugitive.
He showed the stripes his master gave, The festering wound--the sightless eye, The common badges of the slave, And said he would be free, or die; And if I nothing had to give, I should not stop the fugitive.
He owned his was a sable skin, That which his Maker first had given; But mine would be a darker sin, That would exclude my soul from heaven: And if I would God's grace receive, I should relieve the fugitive.
I bowed and took the stranger in, And gave him meat, and drink, and rest, I hope that God forgave my sin, And made me with that brother blest; I am resolved, long as I live, To help the panting fugitive.
AM I NOT A MAN AND BROTHER?
Words by A.C.L. Air--"Bride's Farewell."
[Music]
Am I not a man and brother? Ought I not, then, to be free? Sell me not one to another, Take not thus my liberty. Christ our Saviour, Christ our Saviour, Died for me as well as thee.
Am I not a man and brother? Have I not a soul to save? Oh, do not my spirit smother, Making me a wretched slave: God of mercy, God of mercy, Let me fill a freeman's grave!
Yes, thou art a man and brother, Though thou long hast groaned a slave, Bound with cruel cords and tether From the cradle to the grave! Yet the Saviour, yet the Saviour, Bled and died all souls to save.
Yes, thou art a man and brother, Though we long have told thee nay: And are bound to aid each other, All along our pilgrim way. Come and welcome, come and welcome, Join with us to praise and pray!
Am I not a Sister?
BY A.C.L.
Am I not a sister, say? Shall I then be bought and sold In the mart and by the way, For the white man's lust and gold? Save me then from his foul snare, Leave me not to perish there!
Am I not a sister say, Though I have a sable hue! Lo! I have been dragged away, From my friends and kindred true, And have toiled in yonder field, There have long been bruised and peeled!
Am I not a sister, say? Have I an immortal soul? Will you, sisters, tell me nay? Shall I live in lust's control, To be chattled like a beast, By the Christian church and priest?
Am I not a sister, say? Though I have been made a slave? Will you not then for me pray, To the God whose power can save, High and low, and bond and free? Toil and pray and vote for me!