The hunting-knife he flung aside,
He dropp'd the warrior blade,
And delved for bread the soil o'er which
His fathers idly stray'd.
"The white man saw that gold was there,
And sought, with savage hand,
To drive his guiltless brother forth,
A wanderer o'er the land.
I saw and gave the tale of shame
To swell on history's page,-
A blot upon Columbia's name
For many a future age.
"With aching brow and wearied limb,
The slave his toil pursued;
And oft I saw the cruel scourge
Deep in his blood imbrued;
He till'd 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 fill'd 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 him in night.
"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 turn'd,
While the panting wish for liberty
Like a fire in his bosom burn'd.
"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 shriek'd in vain
For her infant's threaten'd 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 crush'd, and his fetters' link
Drawn tighter than before;
And the bloody earth again was drench'd
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 oppress'd and wrong'd,
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 pass'd;
But this, the sum of all I have learn'd,
Ere I go I will tell to thee;-
If tyrants would hope for tranquil hearts,
They must let the oppress'd go free."
NIGHT! with its thousand stars, and the deep hush
That makes its darkness solemn! The winds rush
In troubled music, o'er the wooded hill,
And the wide plain where creeps the fetter'd rill,
In wintry silence; but a softer sound
Of melody from man's lit halls swells round
No slumber yet to-night! the hours fleet on,
With converse, song, and laughter's joyous tone;
The young and gay are met in social mirth,
Or the home circle gathers round the hearth,
Or swelling upwards from the house of prayer,
The voice of praise concludes the passing year.
'Tis almost midnight now;-hark! hush!-the bell
At once a note of triumph and a knell!
A sudden silence-the quick breath quell'd,
The speaker's voice in mute suspension held;
What thousand thoughts are in that moment press'd—
Past, present, future, crowding on the breast,
As stroke by stroke tolls on !—and then a start-
A sudden lightning of the eye and heart,
A burst of joyous greeting-such as here
We wish you, friends beloved-a happy year!
So speeds time on! scarce seems a moment sped,
Since first we hail'd the year that now has fled.
So speeds time on-but hath it left no trace,
That future hours shall never more efface?
Go, turn to Poland! may her sons forget
Their desolated fields with carnage wet?
Their bright brief hopes,—their struggle, fierce and proud,
With the stern despot 'neath whose yoke they bow'd,
The lightning thrill that flash'd through every breast,
When wakening freedom waved her eagle crest,
Their hopes upspringing almost from despair,
And burning with a short illusive glare,
Soon to be quench'd in blood? Oh, God of Peace!
Must such wild scenes of carnage never cease?
Is blood "pour'd out like water," still to be
The price of man's high yearning to be free?
Woe for the tyrant's selfishness and pride,
That hath to man his holiest rights denied!
Is life too poor in ills?—hath death so scant
His fearful quiver stored, that man should pant
To give the earth red graves? Ah! when shall right
Her nobler triumphs seek by moral light,
And learn that e'en the sweets of liberty
Are bought, with slaughter, at a price too high?
And when shall our own banner cease to wave
Its starry folds in mockery o'er the slave?
Oh! blot upon our land, and heavy shame
That e'er Columbia should bear such name !-
That men, like beasts, should be enslaved and sold
For a base pittance of mere sordid gold;
That women's limbs beneath the scourge should bleed,
The swollen pomp of luxury to feed;
And in the freest nation known on earth,
The licensed thief invade the household hearth;
The purest, best affections of the heart,
And the strong ties of kindred rend apart,
And seizing, fiend-like, on his helpless prey,
Tear them forever from their homes away.
Oh, when shall tyrants learn that human veins
Bear pulses that were never made for chains :
And loose their links before the oppress'd one's band
Becomes a deadly weapon in his hand!
Our brethren found it such ;—in southern halls,
The cold damp foot of desolation falls;
Young gladsome eyes that late were sparkling bright,
With the free spirit's joyous gush of light,
Mothers made happy by the bursts of glee
From the gay creatures grouped about their knee,
The brow of hoary eld-all, all are there,
With the pale look of anguish and despair:
Or, smitten rudely to the reeking earth,
Have deluged with their blood their own loved hearth.
Alas, alas, for them! alas, for those
Who still in white-lipp'd terror wait their foes!
And woe for all the oppressors' haughty guilt,
And the fresh blood his vengeful hand hath spilt!
Oh, Heaven! in mercy yield them yet a space
To speak with tears of penitence thy grace!
Touch their steel'd hearts with thy dissolving love,
And their vile stains of prejudice remove,
That they may learn, upon the negro's face,
A brother's lineaments at last to trace ;
And strike away the soul-degrading chains
Which long have hung upon his swollen veins;
That mad relentless hatred may no more
Flood the red earth with streams of mingled gore,
And other new years o'er our country rise,
With brighter aspect and more cloudless skies.
THE SLAVE'S APPEAL.
CHRISTIAN mother! when thy prayer
Trembles on the twilight air,
And thou askest God to keep,
In their waking and their sleep,
Those whose love is more to thee
Than the wealth of land or sea,
Think of those who wildly mourn
For the loved ones from them torn!
Christian daughter, sister, wife!
Ye who wear a guarded life—
Ye, whose bliss hangs not, like mine,
On a tyrant's word or sign,
Will ye hear, with careless eye,
Of the wild despairing cry,
Rising up from human hearts,
As their latest bliss departs?
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