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But at the thought of such iniquity,
And so much wretchedness, had shuddering wept,
Beheld it now without a passing pang;
And careless went to her own babes again-
So much had the best feelings of her heart
Been seard by dwelling 'midst a land of slaves.

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No, no, pretty sugar-plums! stay where you are !
Though my grandmother sent you to me from so far;
You look very nice, you would taste very sweet,
And I love you right well, yet not one will I eat.
For the poor slaves have labour'd, far down in the south,
To make you so sweet and so nice for my mouth;
But I want no slaves toiling for me in the sun,
Driven on with the whip, till the long day is done.
Perhaps some poor slave child, that hoed up the ground,
Round the cane in whose rich juice your sweetness was found,
Was flogg'd, till his mother cried sadly to see,
And I'm sure I want nobody beaten for me.
So grandma, I thank you for being so kind,
your present, to-day, is not much to

Though I love you so dearly, I choose not to eat
Even what you have sent me by slavery made sweet.
Thus said little Fanny, and skipp'd off to play,
Leaving all her nice sugar-plums just where they lay,
As merry as if they had gone in her mouth,
And she had not cared for the slaves of the south.



press me not to taste again
Of those luxurious banquet sweets !
Or hide from view the dark red stain,

That still my shuddering vision meets.

Away! 'tis loathsome! bear me hence !

I cannot feed on human sighs,
Or feast with sweets my palate's sense,

While blood is 'neath the fair disguise.

No, never let me taste again

Of aught beside the coarsest fare,
Far rather, than my conscience stain,

With the polluted luxuries there.

LOOKING AT THE SOLDIERS. “MOTHER, the trumpets are sounding to-day, And the soldiers go by in their gallant array ! Their horses prance gaily, their banners float free, Come, come to the window, dear mother, with me. “Do you see how their bayonets gleam in the sun, And their soldier-plumes nod, as they slowly march on? And look to the regular tread of their feet ! Keeping time to the sound of the kettle-drum's beat. “This, mother, you know, is a glorious day, And Americans all should be joyous and gay ; For the Fourth of July saw our country set free; But you look not delighted, dear mother, like me!" “No, love; for that shining and brilliant display, To me only tells of war's fearful array; And I know that those bayonets, flashing so bright, Were made in man's blood to be spoil'd of their light. “ And the music that swells up so sweet to the ear, In a long gush of melody, joyous and clear, Just as freely would pour out its wild thrilling flood, To stir up men's hearts to the shedding of blood ! “Our country, my boy, as you tell me, is free, But even that thought brings a sadness to me; For less guilt would be hers, were her own fetter'd hand Unable to loosen her slaves from their band.

“We joy that our country's light bonds have been broke, But her sons wear, by thousands, a life-crushing yoke; And yon bayonets, dear, would be sheathed in their breast, Should they fling off the shackles that round them are prest, “Even 'midst these triumphant rejoicings, to-day, The slave-mother weeps for her babes, torn away, 'Midst the echoing burst of these shouts, to be sold, Human forms as they are, for a pittance of gold ! “ Can you wonder then, love, that your mother is sad, Though yon show is so gay, and the crowd is so glad ? Or will not my boy turn with me from the sight, To think of those slaves sunk in sorrow and night ?”

TO A STRANGER. I KNOW thee not, young maiden, yet I know that there must be Around that heart of thine, sweet ties of clinging sympathy; Dwell'st thou not ’midst "thy childhood's hours, a loved and

loving one, Around whose path affection's light hath ever sunshine thrown? A sister's arm is round thee twined, perchance, oh deeply blest! A parent's fond and holy kiss upon thy brow is prest; A brother's love—is that, too, thine ? —a gem of priceless worth, To guard thee, like a talisman, amid the storms of earth. Then blame me not, that I should seek, although I know not thee, To waken in thy heart its chords of holiest sympathy; It is for woman's bleeding heart, for woman's humbled form, O’er which the reeking lash is swung, with life's red current


It is for those who wildly mourn o'er many a broken tie,
As sweet as those which swell thy heart with happiness so high ;
For those whose hearts are rent and crůsh'd by foul oppression's

hand, The wrong'd, the wretched, the enslaved, in freedom's chosen


Oh, lady! when a sister's cry is ringing on the air,
When woman's pleading eye is raised in agonized despair,
When woman's limbs are scourged and sold ’midst rude and

brutal mirth, And all affection's holiest ties are trampled to the earth, May female hearts be still unstirr’d, and ’midst their wretch.

ed lot, The victims of unmeasured wrongs be carelessly forgot? Or shall the prayer be pour'd for them, the tear be freely given, Until the chains, that bind them now, from every limb be riven?


Eat! they are cates for a lady's lip,
Rich as the sweets that the wild bees sip;
Mingled viands that nature hath pour'd,
From the plenteous stores of her flowing board,
Bearing no trace of man's cruelty-save
The red life-drops of his human slave.
List thee, lady! and turn aside,
With a loathing heart, from the feast of pride ;
For, mix'd with the pleasant sweets it bears,
Is the hidden curse of scalding tears,
Wrung out from woman's bloodshot eye,
By the depth of her deadly agony.
Look! they are robes from a foreign loom,
Delicate, light, as the rose leaf's bloom ;
Stainless and pure in their snowy tint,
As the drift unmarked by a footstep's print.
Surely such garment should fitting be,
For woman's softness and purity.
Yet fling them off from thy shrinking limb,
For sighs have render'd their brightness dim;
And many a mother's shriek and groan,
And many a daughter's burning moan,

many a sob of wild despair,
From woman's heart, is lingering there.


Robert Sutcliff, in his book of travels in America, relates the incident which has suggested the following lines. Little Sado was an African boy, who was rescued from a slave-ship by a United States' frigate, and provided by the Pennsylvania Abolition Society with a home, in a respectable family, near Philadelphia.

“ Although tended with the greatest tenderness," says Sutcliff, “yet he was often seen weeping at the recollection of his near connexions. He said that himself and sister were on a visit, at a relation's, and that after the family had retired to rest, they were suddenly alarmed at the dead of night, by a company of man-stealers breaking into their habitation. They were all carried off towards the sea, where they arrived at the end of three days, and were confined until the vessel sailed.

“Not long after this negro boy had been brought into S. P.'s family, he was taken ill of a bad fever; and for a time there appeared but little hopes of his recovery, although the best medical help was obtained, and every kindness and attention shown him.

“ There being now scarcely any prospect of his recovery, his mistress was desirous of administering some religious consolation, and observed to him, as he had always been a very good boy, she had no doubt that if he died at this time, his spirit would be admitted into a state of eternal rest and peace. On hearing this he quickly replied, “I know that if I die, I shall be happy; for as soon as my body is dead, my spirit shall fly away to my father and mother and sisters and brothers in Africa. The boy recovered. His good conduct had gained the favour and respect of the whole family, and I have no doubt that the care bestowed upon his education, will in due time afford him a brighter prospect of a future state than that of returning to Africa.”

“Why weep'st thou, gentle boy? Is not thy lot
Amidst a home of tenderness and friends
Who have been ever kind to thee? Thy heart
Should be too young for the world's bitterness,
And the deep grief, that even amidst thy smiles,
Seems scarce to be forgotten. Thou art good,
A very innocent and gentle boy,
And I would have thee happy. Is there aught
Thou lackest with us, Sado? Did I not,
In thy sore sickness, with a mother's care,

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