False Weight
If thou art fair, deal, lady, fair,
And let the scales be even;
Forbid the poising beam to rear,
And pull thee down from heaven.
Dost thou desire to die in peace,
For ev'ry sin forgiven,
Give back my right, thy weight decrease,
And mount like mine to heaven.
Rather give over to the poor,
Take ten and give eleven;
Or else be fair, I ask no more,
'Tis all required of heaven.
And when on thee for pay I call,
Which is but four for seven,
Keep nothing back, but pay it all,
It is not hid from heaven.
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poem by George Moses Horton
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George Moses Horton, Myself
I feel myself in need
Of the inspiring strains of ancient lore,
My heart to lift, my empty mind to feed,
And all the world explore.
I know that I am old
And never can recover what is past,
But for the future may some light unfold
And soar from ages blast.
I feel resolved to try,
My wish to prove, my calling to pursue,
Or mount up from the earth into the sky,
To show what Heaven can do.
My genius from a boy,
Has fluttered like a bird within my heart;
But could not thus confined her powers employ,
Impatient to depart.
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poem by George Moses Horton
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Recent Appearance Of A Lady
The joy of meeting one so fair,
Inspires the present stream of song;
A bonny belle,
That few excel,
And one with whom I few compare,
Though out of sight so long.
It is a cause of much delight,
When lads and lasses meet again;
But, bonny belle,
No long to dwell,
For soon, upon the wing of flight,
We haste away in pain.
That long hid form I smile to trace,
A star emerging out of gloom,
Exalted belle,
Whose powers impel,
And draw the heart by every grace,
The queen of every bloom.
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poem by George Moses Horton
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The Setting Sun
'Tis sweet to trace the setting sun
Wheel blushing down the west;
When his diurnal race is run,
The traveller stops the gloom to shun,
And lodge his bones to rest.
Far from the eye he sinks apace,
But still throws back his light
From oceans of resplendent grace,
Whence sleeping vesper paints her face,
And bids the sun good night.
To those hesperian fields by night
My thoughts in vision stray,
Like spirits stealing into light,
From gloom upon the wing of flight,
Soaring from time away.
Our eagle, with his pinions furl'd,
Takes his departing peep,
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poem by George Moses Horton
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The Eye Of Love
I know her story-telling eye
Has more expression than her tongue;
And from that heart-extorted sigh,
At once the peal of love is rung.
When that soft eye lets fall a tear
Of doating fondness as we part,
The stream is from a cause sincere,
And issues from a melting heart.
What shall her fluttering pulse restrain,
The life-watch beating from her soul,
When all the power of hate is slain,
And love permits it no control.
When said her tongue, I wish thee well,
Her eye declared it must be true;
And every sentence seem'd to tell
The tale of sorrow told by few.
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poem by George Moses Horton
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Departing Summer
When auburn Autumn mounts the stage,
And Summer fails her charms to yield,
Bleak nature turns another page,
To light the glories of the field.
At once the vale declines to bloom,
The forest smiles no longer gay;
Gardens are left without perfume,
The rose and lilly pine away.
The orchard bows her fruitless head,
As one divested of her store;
Or like a queen whose train has fled,
And left her sad to smile no more.
That bird which breath'd her vernal song,
And hopp'd along the flow'ry spray,
Now silent holds her warbling tongue,
Which dulcifies the feast of May.
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poem by George Moses Horton
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Love
Whilst tracing thy visage I sink in emotion,
For no other damsel so wond'rous I see;
Thy looks are so pleasing, thy charms so amazing,
I think of no other, my true-love, but thee.
With heart-burning rapture I gaze on thy beauty,
And fly like a bird to the boughs of a tree;
Thy looks are so pleasing, thy charms so amazing,
I fancy no other, my true-love, but thee.
Thus oft in the valley I think, and I wonder
Why cannot a maid with her lover agree?
Thy looks are so pleasing, thy charms so amazing,
I pine for no other, my true-love, but thee.
I'd fly from thy frowns with a heart full of sorrow--
Return, pretty damsel, and smile thou on me;
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poem by George Moses Horton
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Memory
Sweet memory, like a pleasing dream,
Still lends a dull and feeble ray;
For ages with her vestige teems,
When beauty's trace is worn away.
When pleasure, with her harps unstrung,
Sits silent to be heard no more,
Or leaves them on the willows hung,
And pass-time glee forever o'er;
Still back in smiles thy glory steals
With ev'ning dew drops from thine eye;
The twilight bursting from thy wheels,
Ascends and bids oblivion fly.
Memory, thy bush prevails to bloom,
Design'd to fade, no, never, never,
Will stamp thy vestige on the tomb,
And bid th' immortal live forever.
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poem by George Moses Horton
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Troubled With The Itch, And Rubbing Sulfur
'Tis bitter, yet 'tis sweet,
Scratching effects but transient ease;
Pleasure and pain together meet,
And vanish as they please.
My nails, the only balm,
To ev'ry bump are oft applied,
And thus the rage will sweetly calm
Which aggravates my hide.
It soon returns again;
A frown succeeds to ev'ry smile;
Grinning I scratch and curse the pain,
But grieve to be so vile.
In fine, I know not which
Can play the most deceitful game,
The devil, sulphur, or the itch;
The three are but the same.
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poem by George Moses Horton
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The Slave's Complaint
Am I sadly cast aside,
On misfortune's rugged tide?
Will the world my pains deride
Forever?
Must I dwell in Slavery's night,
And all pleasure take its flight,
Far beyond my feeble sight,
Forever?
Worst of all, must Hope grow dim,
And withhold her cheering beam?
Rather let me sleep and dream
Forever!
Something still my heart surveys,
Groping through this dreary maze;
Is it Hope? -- then burn and blaze
Forever!
Leave me not a wretch confined,
Altogether lame and blind --
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poem by George Moses Horton
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