The Anti-Slavery Harp

Excerpt

AM I NOT A MAN AND BROTHER?

AIR—Bride's Farewell.

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!

O, PITY THE SLAVE MOTHER.

AIR—Araby's Daughter.

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 path-way 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.

AIR—Sweet Afton.

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,
O! 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...!