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THE
LIBERTY MINSTREL.
"When the striving of surges
Is mad on the main,
Like the charge of a column
Of plumes on the plain,
When the thunder is up
From his cloud cradled sleep
And the tempest is treading
The paths of the deep—
There is beauty. But where is the beauty to see,
Like the sun-brilliant brow of a nation when free?"
BY
GEO. W. CLARK.
NEW-YORK:
LEAVITT & ALDEN, 7 Cornhill, Boston: SAXTON & MILES, 205
Broadway, N.Y.: MYRON FINCH, 120 Nassau st., N.Y.:
JACKSON & CHAPLIN, 38 Dean st., Albany, N.Y.:
JACKSON & CHAPLIN, corner Genessee and
Main st., Utica, N.Y.
1844.
Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1844, by
GEORGE W. CLARK,
In the Clerk's office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York.
S.W. BENEDICT & CO.
MUSIC STEREOTYPERS AND PRINTERS,
16 Spruce St. N.Y.
PREFACE.
All creation is musical—all nature speaks the language of song.
'There's music in the sighing of a reed,
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's music in all things, if man had ears;
The earth is but an echo of the spheres.'
And who is not moved by music? "Who ever despises music," says Martin Luther, "I am displeased with him."
'There is a charm—a power that sways the breast,
Bids every passion revel, or be still;
Inspires with rage, or all our cares dissolves;
Can soothe destruction, and almost soothes despair.'
That music is capable of accomplishing vast good, and that it is a source of the most elevated and refined enjoyment when rightly cultivated and practiced, no one who understands its power or has observed its effects, will for a moment deny.
'Thou, O music! canst assuage the pain and heal the wound
That hath defied the skill of sager comforters;
Thou dost restrain each wild emotion,
Thou dost the rage of fiercest passions chill,
Or lightest up the flames of holy fire,
As through the soul thy strains harmonious thrill.'
Who does not desire to see the day when music in this country, cultivated and practised by all—music of a chaste, refined and elevated style, shall go forth with its angel voice, like a spirit of love upon the wind, exerting upon all classes of society a rich and healthful moral influence. When its wonderful power shall be made to subserve every righteous cause—to aid every humane effort for the promotion of man's social, civil and religious well-being.
It has been observed by travellers, that after a short residence in almost any of the cities of the eastern world, one would fancy "every second person a musician." During the night, the streets of these cities, particularly Rome, the capitol of Italy, are filled with all sorts of minstrelsy, and the ear is agreeably greeted with a perpetual confluence of sweet sounds. A Scotch traveller, in passing through one of the most delightful villas of Rome, overheard a stonemason chanting something in a strain of peculiar melancholy; and on inquiry, ascertained it to be the "Lament of Tasso." He soon learned that this celebrated piece was familiar to all the common people. Torquato Tasso was an Italian poet of great merit, who was for many years deprived of liberty, and subjected to severe trials and misfortunes by the jealousy and cruelty of his patron, the Duke of Ferrara. That master-piece of music, so justly admired and so much sung by the high and low throughout all Italy, had its origin in the wrongs of Tasso. An ardent love of humanity—a deep consciousness of the injustice of slavery—a heart full of sympathy for the oppressed, and a due appreciation of the blessings of freedom, has given birth to the poetry comprising this volume. I have long desired to see these sentiments of love, of sympathy, of justice and humanity, so beautifully expressed in poetic measure, embalmed in sweet music; so that all the people—the rich, the poor, the young, and the old, who have hearts to feel, and tongues to move, may sing of the wrongs of slavery, and the blessings of liberty, until every human being shall recognise in his fellow an equal;—"a man and a brother." Until by familiarity with these sentiments, and their influence upon their hearts, the people, whose duty it is, shall "undo the heavy burdens and let the oppressed go free."
I announced, sometime since, my intention of publishing such a work. Many have been impatiently waiting its appearance. I should have been glad to have issued it and scattered it like leaves of the forest over the land, long ago, but circumstances which I could not control, have prevented. I purpose to enlarge the work from time to time, as circumstances may require.
Let associations of singers, having the love of liberty in their hearts, be immediately formed in every community. Let them study thoroughly, and make themselves perfectly familiar with both the poetry and the music, and enter into the sentiment of the piece they perform, that they may impress it upon their hearers. Above all things, let the enunciation of every word be clear and distinct. Most of the singing of the present day, is entirely too artificial, stiff and mechanical. It should be easy and natural; flowing directly from the soul of the performer, without affectation or display; and then singing will answer its true end, and not only please the ear, but affect and improve the heart.
To the true friends of universal freedom, the Liberty Minstrel is respectfully dedicated.
G.W. CLARK.
New York, Oct. 1844.
THE
LIBERTY MINSTREL.
GONE, SOLD AND GONE.
Words by Whittier. Music by G.W. Clark.
[[Listen]] [[PDF]] [[Lilypond]]
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings,
Where the noisome insect stings,
Where the fever demon strews
Poison with the falling dews,
Where the sickly sunbeams glare
Through the hot and misty air,
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
There no mother's eye is near them,
There no mother's ear can hear them;
Never when the torturing lash
Seams their back with many a gash,
Shall a mother's kindness bless them,
Or a mother's arms caress them.
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
Oh, when weary, sad, and slow,
From the fields at night they go,
Faint with toil, and rack'd with pain,
To their cheerless homes again—
There no brother's voice shall greet them—
There no father's welcome meet them.—Gone, &c.
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From the tree whose shadow lay
On their childhood's place of play—
From the cool spring where they drank—
Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank—
From the solemn house of prayer,
And the holy counsels there.—Gone, &c.
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
Toiling through the weary day,
And at night the Spoiler's prey;
Oh, that they had earlier died,
Sleeping calmly, side by side,
Where the tyrant's power is o'er,
And the fetter galls no more!—Gone, &c.
Gone, gone—sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
By the holy love He beareth—
By the bruised reed He spareth—
Oh, may He, to whom alone
All their cruel wrongs are known,
Still their hope and refuge prove,
With a more than mother's love.—Gone, &c.
WHAT MEANS THAT SAD AND DISMAL LOOK?
Words by Geo. Russell. Arranged from "Near the Lake," by G.W.C.
[[Listen]] [[PDF]] [[Lilypond]]
What means that sad and dismal look,
And why those falling tears?
No voice is heard, no word is spoke,
Yet nought but grief appears.
Ah! Mother, hast thou ever known
The pain of parting ties?
Was ever infant from thee torn
And sold before thine eyes?
Say, would not grief thy bosom swell?
Thy tears like rivers flow?
Should some rude ruffian seize and sell
The child thou lovest so?
There's feeling in a Mother's breast,
Though colored be her skin!
And though at Slavery's foul behest,
She must not weep for kin.
I had a lovely, smiling child,
It sat upon my knee;
And oft a tedious hour beguiled,
With merry heart of glee.
That child was from my bosom torn,
And sold before my eyes;
With outstretched arms, and looks forlorn,
It uttered piteous cries.
Mother! dear Mother!—take, O take
Thy helpless little one!
Ah! then I thought my heart would break;
My child—my child was gone.
Long, long ago, my child they stole,
But yet my grief remains;
These tears flow freely—and my soul
In bitterness complains.
Then ask not why "my dismal look,"
Nor why my "falling tears,"
Such wrongs, what human heart can brook?
No hope for me appears.
The Slave Boy’s Wish.
BY ELIZA LEE FOLLEN.
I wish I was that little bird,
Up in the bright blue sky;
That sings and flies just where he will,
And no one asks him why.
I wish I was that little brook,
That runs so swift along;
Through pretty flowers and shining stones,
Singing a merry song.
I wish I was that butterfly,
Without a thought or care;
Sporting my pretty, brilliant wings,
Like a flower in the air.
I wish I was that wild, wild deer,
I saw the other day;
Who swifter than an arrow flew,
Through the forest far away.
I wish I was that little cloud,
By the gentle south wind driven;
Floating along, so free and bright,
Far, far up into heaven.
I'd rather be a cunning fox,
And hide me in a cave;
I'd rather be a savage wolf,
Than what I am—a slave.
My mother calls me her good boy,
My father calls me brave;
What wicked action have I done,
That I should be a slave.
I saw my little sister sold,
So will they do to me;
My Heavenly Father, let me die,
For then I shall be free.
THE BEREAVED FATHER.
Words by Miss Chandler. Music by G.W.C.
[[Listen]] [[PDF]] [[Lilypond]]
Ye've gone from me, my gentle ones!
With all your shouts of mirth;
A silence is within my walls,
A darkness round my hearth,
A darkness round my hearth.
Woe to the hearts that heard, unmoved,
The mother's anguish'd shriek!
And mock'd, with taunting scorn, the tears
That bathed a father's cheek.
Woe to the hands that tore you hence,
My innocent and good!
Not e'en the tigress of the wild,
Thus tears her fellow's brood.
I list to hear your soft sweet tones,
Upon the morning air;
I gaze amidst the twilight's gloom,
As if to find you there.
But you no more come bounding forth
To meet me in your glee;
And when the evening shadows fall,
Ye are not at my knee.
Your forms are aye before my eyes,
Your voices on my ear,
And all things wear a thought of you,
But you no more are here.
You were the glory of my life,
My blessing and my pride!
I half forgot the name of slave,
When you were by my side!
Woe for your lot, ye doom'd ones! woe
A seal is on your fate!
And shame, and toil, and wretchedness,
On all your steps await!
SLAVE GIRL MOURNING HER FATHER.
Parodied from Mrs. Sigourney by G.W.C.
[[Listen]] [[PDF]] [[Lilypond]]
They say I was but four years old
When father was sold away;
Yet I have never seen his face
Since that sad parting day.
He went where brighter flowrets grow
Beneath the Southern skies;
Oh who will show me on the map
Where that far country lies?
I begged him, "father, do not go!
For, since my mother died,
I love no one so well as you;"
And, clinging to his side,
The tears came gushing down my cheeks
Until my eyes were dim;
Some were in sorrow for the dead,
And some in love for him.
He knelt and prayed of God above,
"My little daughter spare,
And let us both here meet again,
O keep her in thy care."
He does not come!—I watch for him
At evening twilight grey,
Till every shadow wears his shape,
Along the grassy way.
I muse and listen all alone,
When stormy winds are high,
And think I hear his tender tone,
And call, but no reply;
And so I've done these four long years,
Without a friend or home,
Yet every dream of hope is vain,—
Why don't my father come?
Father—dear father, are you sick,
Upon a stranger shore?—
The people say it must be so—
O send to me once more,
And let your little daughter come,
To soothe your restless bed,
And hold the cordial to your lips,
And press your aching head.
Alas!—I fear me he is dead!—
Who will my trouble share?
Or tell me where his form is laid,
And let me travel there?
By mother's tomb I love to sit,
Where the green branches wave;
Good people! help a friendless child
To find her father's grave.
The Slave and her Babe.
WORDS BY CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH.
"Can a woman forget her sucking child?"
Air—"[Slave Girl mourning her Father.]"
O, massa, let me stay, to catch
My baby's sobbing breath;
His little glassy eye to watch,
And smooth his limbs in death,
And cover him with grass and leaf,
Beneath the plantain tree!
It is not sullenness, but grief—
O, massa, pity me!
God gave me babe—a precious boon,
To cheer my lonely heart,
But massa called to work too soon,
And I must needs depart.
The morn was chill—I spoke no word,
But feared my babe might die,
And heard all day, or thought I heard,
My little baby cry.
At noon—O, how I ran! and took
My baby to my breast!
I lingered—and the long lash broke
My sleeping infant's rest.
I worked till night—till darkest night,
In torture and disgrace;
Went home, and watched till morning light,
To see my baby's face.
The fulness from its cheek was gone,
The sparkle from its eye;
Now hot, like fire, now cold, like stone,
I knew my babe must die.
I worked upon plantation ground,
Though faint with woe and dread,
Then ran, or flew, and here I found—
See massa, almost dead.
Then give me but one little hour—
O! do not lash me so!
One little hour—one little hour—
And gratefully I'll go.
Ah me! the whip has cut my boy,
I heard his feeble scream;
No more—farewell my only joy,
My life's first gladsome dream!
I lay thee on the lonely sod,
The heaven is bright above;
These Christians boast they have a God,
And say his name is Love:
O gentle, loving God, look down!
My dying baby see;
The mercy that from earth is flown,
Perhaps may dwell with Thee!
THE NEGRO’S APPEAL.
Words by Cowper. Tune—"Isle of Beauty."
[[Listen]] [[PDF]] [[Lilypond]]
Forced from home and all its pleasures,
Afric's coast I left forlorn;
To increase a stranger's treasures,
O'er the raging billows borne.
Christian people bought and sold me,
Paid my price in paltry gold:
But though slave they have enrolled me
Minds are never to be sold.
Is there, as ye sometimes tell me,
Is there one who reigns on high?
Has he bid you buy and sell me,
Speaking from his throne—the sky?
Ask him, if your knotted scourges,
Matches, blood-extorting screws,
Are the means that duty urges
Agents of his will to use.
Hark! he answers—wild tornadoes,
Strewing yonder sea with wrecks,
Wasting towns, plantations, meadows,
Are the voice with which he speaks.
He, foreseeing what vexations
Afric's sons should undergo,
Fixed their tyrant's habitations,
Where his whirlwinds answer—No!
By our blood in Afric' wasted,
Ere our necks received the chain;
By the miseries that we tasted,
Crossing in your barks the main:
By our sufferings, since ye brought us
To the man-degrading mart,
All sustained by patience, taught us
Only by a broken heart—
Deem our nation brutes no longer,
Till some reason ye shall find,
Worthier of regard and stronger
Than the color of our kind.
Slaves of gold! whose sordid dealings
Tarnish all your boasted powers;
Prove that you have human feelings,
Ere you proudly question ours.
NEGRO BOY SOLD FOR A WATCH.[1]
Words by Cowper. Arranged by G.W.C. from an old theme.
[[Listen]] [[PDF]] [[Lilypond]]
When avarice enslaves the mind,
And selfish views alone bear sway
Man turns a savage to his kind,
And blood and rapine mark his way.
Alas! for this poor simple toy,
I sold the hapless Negro boy.
His father's hope, his mother's pride,
Though black, yet comely to the view
I tore him helpless from their side,
And gave him to a ruffian crew—
To fiends that Afric's coast annoy,
I sold the hapless Negro Boy.
From country, friends, and parents torn,
His tender limbs in chains confined,
I saw him o'er the billows borne,
And marked his agony of mind;
But still to gain this simple toy,
I gave the weeping Negro Boy.
In isles that deck the western wave
I doomed the hapless youth to dwell,
A poor, forlorn, insulted slave!
A beast that christians buy and sell!
And in their cruel tasks employ
The much-enduring Negro Boy.
His wretched parents long shall mourn,
Shall long explore the distant main
In hope to see the youth return;
But all their hopes and sighs are vain:
They never shall the sight enjoy,
Of their lamented Negro Boy.
Beneath a tyrant's harsh command,
He wears away his youthful prime;
Far distant from his native land,
A stranger in a foreign clime.
No pleasing thoughts his mind employ,
A poor, dejected Negro Boy.
But He who walks upon the wind,
Whose voice in thunder's heard on high,
Who doth the raging tempest bind,
And hurl the lightning through the sky,
In his own time will sure destroy
The oppressor of the Negro Boy.
I AM MONARCH OF NOUGHT I SURVEY.
A Parody. Air "Old Dr. Fleury."
[[Listen]] [[PDF]] [[Lilypond]]
I am monarch of nought I survey,
My wrongs there are none to dispute;
My master conveys me away,
His whims or caprices to suit.
O slavery, where are the charms
That "patriarchs" have seen in thy face;
I dwell in the midst of alarms,
And serve in a horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach,
And must finish my life with a groan;
Never hear the sweet music of speech
That tells me my body's my own.
Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestowed upon some,
Are blessings I never can prove,
If slavery's my portion to come.
Religion! what treasures untold,
Reside in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver or gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But I am excluded the light
That leads to this heavenly grace;
The Bible is clos'd to my sight,
Its beauties I never can trace.
Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Convey to this sorrowful land,
Some cordial endearing report,
Of freedom from tyranny's hand.
My friends, do they not often send,
A wish or a thought after me?
O, tell me I yet have a friend,
A friend I am anxious to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight;
The tempest itself lags behind,
And the swift-winged arrows of light.
When I think of Victoria's domain,
In a moment I seem to be there,
But the fear of being taken again,
Soon hurries me back to despair.
The wood-fowl has gone to her nest,
The beast has lain down in his lair;
To me, there's no season of rest,
Though I to my quarter repair.
If mercy, O Lord, is in store,
For those who in slavery pine;
Grant me when life's troubles are o'er,
A place in thy kingdom divine.
THE AFRIC’S DREAM.
Words by Miss Chandler. "Emigrant's Lament," arranged by G.W.C.
[[Listen]] [[PDF]] [[Lilypond]]
Why did ye wake me from my sleep? It was a dream of bliss,
And ye have torn me from that land, to pine again in this;
Methought, beneath yon whispering tree, that I was laid to rest,
The turf, with all its with'ring flowers, upon my cold heart pressed.
My chains, these hateful chains, were gone—oh, would that I might die,
So from my swelling pulse I could forever cast them by!
And on, away, o'er land and sea, my joyful spirit passed,
Till, 'neath my own banana tree, I lighted down at last.
My cabin door, with all its flowers, was still profusely gay,
As when I lightly sported there, in childhood's careless day!
But trees that were as sapling twigs, with broad and shadowing bough,
Around the well-known threshhold spread a freshening coolness now.
The birds whose notes I used to hear, were shouting on the earth,
As if to greet me back again with their wild strains of mirth;
My own bright stream was at my feet, and how I laughed to lave
My burning lip, and cheek, and brow, in that delicious wave!
My boy, my first-born babe, had died amid his early hours,
And there we laid him to his sleep among the clustering flowers;
Yet lo! without my cottage-door he sported in his glee,
With her whose grave is far from his, beneath yon linden tree.
I sprang to snatch them to my soul; when breathing out my name,
To grasp my hand, and press my lip, a crowd of loved ones came!
Wife, parents, children, kinsmen, friends! the dear and lost ones all,
With blessed words of welcome came, to greet me from my thrall.
Forms long unseen were by my side; and thrilling on my ear,
Came cadences from gentle tones, unheard for many a year;
And on my cheeks fond lips were pressed, with true affection's kiss—
And so ye waked me from my sleep—but 'twas a dream of bliss!
SONG OF THE COFFLE GANG.[2]
Words by the Slaves. Music by G.W.C.
[[Listen]] [[PDF]] [[Lilypond]]
See these poor souls from Africa,
Transported to America;
We are stolen, and sold to Georgia, will you go along with me?
We are stolen and sold to Georgia, go sound the jubilee.
See wives and husbands sold apart,
The children's screams!—it breaks my heart;
There's a better day a coming, will you go along with me?
There's a better day a coming, go sound the jubilee.
O gracious Lord! when shall it be,
That we poor souls shall all be free?
Lord, break them Slavery powers—will you go along with me?
Lord, break them Slavery powers, go sound the jubilee.
Dear Lord! dear Lord! when Slavery'll cease,
Then we poor souls can have our peace;
There's a better day a coming, will you go along with me?
There's a better day a coming, go sound the jubilee.
HARK! I HEAR A SOUND OF ANGUISH.
Air, "Calvary."
[[Listen]] [[PDF]] [[Lilypond]]
Hark! I hear a sound of anguish
In my own, my native land;
Brethren, doomed in chains to languish,
Lift to heaven the suppliant hand,
And despairing,
And despairing,
Death the end of woe demand.
Let us raise our supplication
For the wretched suffering slave,
All whose life is desolation,
All whose hope is in the grave;
God of mercy!
From thy throne, O hear and save.
Those in bonds we would remember
As if we with them were bound;
For each crushed, each suffering member
Let our sympathies abound,
Till our labors
Spread the smiles of freedom round.
Even now the word is spoken;
"Slavery's cruel power must cease,
From the bound the chain be broken,
Captives hail the kind release,"
While in splendor
Comes to reign the Prince of Peace.
BROTHERS BE BRAVE FOR THE PINING SLAVE.
Air—"Sparkling and Bright."
[[Listen]] [[PDF]] [[Lilypond]]
Solo.
Heavy and cold in his dungeon hold,
Is the yoke of the oppressor;
Dark o'er the soul is the fell control
Of the stern and dread transgressor.
Chorus.
Oh then come all to bring the thrall
Up from his deep despairing,
And out of the jaw of the bandit's law,
Retake the prey he's tearing:
O then come all to bring the thrall
Up from his deep despairing,
And out of the jaw of the bandit's law,
Retake the prey he's tearing.
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.
[[Listen]] [[PDF]] [[Lilypond]]
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.
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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."
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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."
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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!
YE HERALDS OF FREEDOM.
Music by Kingsley.
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Ye heralds of freedom, ye noble and brave,
Who dare to insist on the rights of the slave;
Go onward, go onward, your cause is of God,
And he will soon sever the oppressor's strong rod.
The finger of slander may now at you point,
That finger will soon lose the strength of its joint;
And those who now plead for the rights of the slave,
Will soon be acknowledged the good and the brave.
Though thrones and dominions, and kingdoms and powers,
May now all oppose you, the victory is yours;
The banner of Jesus will soon be unfurled,
And he will give freedom and peace to the world.
Go under his standard and fight by his side,
O'er mountains and billows you'll then safely ride.
His gracious protection will be to you given,
And bright crowns of glory he'll give you in heaven.
I would not live alway.
By Pierpont.
I would not live alway; I ask not to stay,
Where I must bear the burden and heat of the day:
Where my body is cut with the lash or the cord,
And a hovel and hunger are all my reward.
I would not live alway, where life is a load
To the flesh and the spirit:—since there's an abode
For the soul disenthralled, let me breathe my last
And repose in thine arms, my deliverer, Death!—
I would not live alway to toil as a slave:
Oh no, let me rest, though I rest in my grave;
For there, from their troubling, the wicked shall
And, free from his master, the slave be at peace.
OUR PILGRIM FATHERS.
Words by Pierpont. Music from "Minstrel Boy," by G.W.C.
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