Heaven Help Ye
Heaven help ye, lorn ones! bending
'Neath your weary life of pain,
Tears of ceaseless anguish blending
With the bitter cup ye drain;
Yet think not your prayers ascending,
Shall forever rise in vain.
Hearts there are of human feeling,
That have felt your cry of woe;
Bear awhile! and soon revealing
Brighter prospects with its glow,
Light across your night-clouds stealing
Hours of freedom yet may show.
Oh Press Me Not To Taste Again
Oh 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! 't is 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.
To Prudence Crandall
Heaven bless thee, noble lady, in thy purpose good and high!
Give knowledge to the thirsting mind, light to the asking eye;
Unseal the intellectual page, for those from whom dark pride,
With tyrant and unholy hands, would fain its treasures hide.
Still bear thou up unyielding ‘gainst persecution's shock,
Gentle as woman's self, yet firm, and moveless as a rock;
A thousand spirits yield to thee their gushing sympathies,
The blessing of a thousand hearts around thy pathway lies.
Think of the Slave
Think of the slave, in your hours of glee,
Ye who are treading life's flowery way;
Nought but its rankling thorns has he,
Nought but the gloom of its wintry day.
Think of the slave, in your hours of woe!—
What are your sorrows, to that he bears?
Quenching the light of his bosom's glow,
With a life-long stain of gushing tears.
Think of the slave, in your hours of prayer,
When worldly thoughts in your hearts are dim,
Offer your thanks for the bliss ye share,
But pray for a brighter lot for him.
Oh, Father! when the soften'd heart
Is lifted up in prayer to thee,
When earthly thoughts awhile depart,
And leave the mounting spirit free—
Then teach us that our love, like thine,
O'er all the realms of earth should flow,
A shoreless stream, a flood divine,
To bathe and heal the heart of woe.
Then Afric's son shall hear no more
The tyrant's in the Christian's name;
Nor tears of wasting anguish pour
Unpitied, o'er his life of shame;
But taught to love thee, by the love
That bids his long-worn fetters break,
He, too, shall lift his soul above,
And serve thee for thy mercy's sake.
Think of Our Country's Glory
Think of our country's glory,
All dimm'd with Afric's tears—
Her broad flag stain'd and gory
With the hoarded guilt of years!
Think of the frantic mother,
Lamenting for her child,
Till falling lashes smother
Her cries of anguish wild!
Think of the prayers ascending,
Yet shriek'd, alas! in vain,
When heart from heart is rending
Ne'er to be join'd again.
Shall we behold, unheeding,
Life's holiest feelings crush'd?—
When woman's heart is bleeding,
Shall woman's voice be hush'd?
[...] Read more
Do you feel sorrowful? I sometimes do,
When busy thought tells me the sufferings
Of some in our south land. Their brows are not
So fair as thine, by much, but yet they are
Our sisters, for the mighty God hath given
To them the boon of an immortal soul.
Yet they are made through life's long years to toil,
Scourge-driven like the brute; and with the fine
And delicate pulses of a human heart,
Stirring to anguish in their bosoms, sold!
Ay, like the meanest household chattel, sold!
Vended from hand to hand, while with each wrench
Their torn hearts bleed at every throbbing pore.
Alas! how can I but feel sorrowful,
To think upon their woes?
When the sinking sunbeams lie
On the forest branches high;
When the twilight hour steals on,
With its hush and soothing tone,
And the care that day hath wrought
Passes from the soften'd thought,
When, like smiles from those we love,
Falls the moonlight from above;
When with evening's earliest star,
Wakes the thought of those afar,
And around thy bosom's cell,
Memory flings her holiest spell,
When the poet's high-wrought words—
When the song of woodland birds—
When the gush of shaded streams
Mingles with thy spirit's dreams,
[...] Read more
Deaf and Dumb
Her face was sweetly serious; yet a smile
Was cradled in the dimple of her cheek,
As if it waited but the frequent call,
To spring to the red lip. I spoke to her,
And listen'd for the music-breathing tones
Of childhood's laughing voice—she answer'd not,
Nor raised the fringes of her deep blue eyes;—
And then they told me that the gushing fount
Of all her young affections was seal'd up.—
That young bright lip was voiceless; and the heart
Sprang not in blessedness to the deep tones
Of thrilling tenderness—the soul was shut—
And all the spirit's wild imaginings
Thrown back in darkness—like the flowers that spring
Beneath the bosom of the winter's snow.
They say this world is fraught with guile
They say that lips may wear a smile,
And yet the heart be cold the while,
As Zembla's sparkling icicle.
They say that those beloved for years,
Will fly when adverse fate appears,
And meet us ‘midst our lonely tears,
With eye averted scornfully.
Believe it not—oh no! oh no!
True hearts there are, that love not so,
But closer twine in grief and woe,
And love ev'n more in misery!
There may be some, perchance, whose eye
Will only smile when hope is high,
And from the couch of sorrow fly,
To meet in sounds of revelry.
[...] Read more