V V * ^^ ^- %.^^ ♦- .'^^#/>,:^ ^?. .^^ '' ♦ .-j:*" '.,(00 POEMS MISCELLANEOUS SUBJECTS, EEANCES ELLEN WATKINS. itcynJ^. TENTH THOUSAND. ^v, - ;j i . «* ?CG PHILADELPHIA: Uerrihbw & Thompson, Printers Lodge street, North side Pennsylvania Bank. 1857. 41 PREFACE Of the colored population of the United States, three millions are doomed to the horrible condition of chattel slavery That condition is the annihilation of manhood the extinction of genius, the burial of mind. In it, therefore, there can be no progress on the part of its victims,- what they are capable of being and doing can be only a matter of supposition. It is unlawful to teach them the alphabet • they not only have no literature, but they know not the meaning of the word ; for them there is no hope, and there- fore no incentive to a higher development; in one word, they are property to be owned, not persons to bo protected. There are half a million free colored persons in our country. These are not admitted to equal rights and pri- vileges with the whites. As a body, their means of educa- tion are extremely limited ; they are oppressed on every hand ; they are confined to the performance of the most menial acts ; consequently, it is not surprising that their intellectual, moral and social advancement is not more rapid. Nay, it is surprising, in view of the injustice meted out to them, that they have done so well. Many bright examples of intelligence, talent, genius and piety might be cited among their ranks, and these are constantly multi- plying. Every indication of ability, on the part of any of their number, is deserving of special encouragement. Whatever is attempted in poetry or prose, in art or science, in profes- sional or mechanical life, should be viewed with a friendly eye, and criticised in a lenient spirit. To measure them by the same standard as we measure the productions of the favored white inhabitants of the land would be manifestly unjust. The varying circumstances and conditions of life are to be taken strictly into account. Hence, in reviewing the following Poems, the critic will remember that they are written by one young in years, and identified in complexion and destiny with a depressed and outcast race, and who has had to contend with a thousand disadvantages from earliest life. They certainly are very creditable to her, both in a literary and moral point of view, and indicate the possession of a talent which, if carefully cultivated and properly encouraged, cannot fail to secure for herself a poetic reputation, and to deepen the interest already so extensively felt in the liberation and enfranchise ment of the entire colored race. Though Miss Watkins has never been a slave, she has always resided in a slave State, Baltimore being her native city. A specimen of her prose writings is also appended. A few slight (alterations excepted, the work is entirely her own. "W. L. G. Boston, August 15, 1854. POEMS. THE SYROPHENICIAN WOMAN. Joy to my bosom ! rest to my fear ! Judea's prophet draweth near ! Joy to my bosom ! peace to my heart ! Sickness and sorrow before bim depart! KackM with agony and pain, Writhing, long my child has lain ; Now the prophet draweth near, All our griefs shall disappear. ^' Lord I" she cried with mournful breath, " Save ! Oh, save my child from death V But as though she was unheard, Jesus answered not a word. With a purpose nought could move. And the zeal of woman's love, Down she knelt in anguish wild — " Master ! save, Oh ! save my child V[ 1* 6 " ' Tis not meet," the Saviour said, " Thus to waste the children's bread ; I am only sent to seek Israel's lost and scattered sheep." "True/' she said, " Oh gracious Lord ! True and faithful is thy word : But the humblest, meanest, may " Eat the crumbs they cast away." " Woman," said th' astonish'd Lord, "Be it even as thy word ! By thy faith that knows no fail. Thou hast ask'd, and shalt prevail." THE SLAVE MOTHER. Heard you that shriek ? It rose So wildly on the air, It seemed as if a burdeo'd heart Was breaking in despa'ir. Saw you those hands so sadly clasped— The bowed and feeble head ■ — The shuddering of that frad^e^foriji — That look of ^rief and dread ? Saw you the sad, imploring eye ? Its every glance was pain, As if a storm of agony Were sweeping through the brain. She is a mother, pale with fear, Her boy clings to her side, And in her kirtle vainly tries His trembling form to hide. He is not hers, although she bore For him a mother^s pains ; He is not hers, although her blood Is coursing through his veins ! He is not hers, for cruel hands May rudely tear apart The only wreath of household love That binds her breaking heart. His love has been a joyous light That o'er her pathway smiled, A fountain gushing ever new, Amid life's desert wild. His lightest word has been a tone Of music round her heart. Their lives a streamlet blent in one- Oh, Father ! must they part ? 8 They tear him from her circling arms, Her last and fond embrace ; Oh ! never more may her sad eyes Gaze on his mournful face. No marvel, then^ these bitter shrieks Disturb the listening air : She is a mother, and her heart Is breaking in despair. BIBLE DEFENCE OF SLAVERY. Take sackcloth of the darkest dye, And shroud the pulpits round ! Servants of Him that cannot lie, Sit mourning on the ground. Let holy horror blanch each cheek, Pale every brow with fears : And rocks and stones, if ye could speak, Ye well might melt to tears ! Let sorrow breathe in every tone, In every strain ye raise ; Insult not God's majestic throne With th* mockery of prais.e. 9 A " reverend'' man, whose light should be The guide of age and youth, Brings to the shrine of Slavery The sacrifice of truth ! For the direst wrong by man imposed, Since Sodom's fearful cry, The word of life has-been unclosed, To give your God the lie. Oh ! when ye pray for heathen lands, And plead for their dark shores, Kemember Slavery's cruel hands Make heathens at your doors ! ELIZA HAKRIS. Like a fawn from the arrow, startled and wild, A woman swept by us, bearing a child ; In her eye was the night of a settled despair, And her brow was o'ershaded with anguish and care. She was nearing the river — in reaching the brink, She heeded no danger, she paused not to think j For she is a mother — her child is a slave — And she'll give him his freedom, or find him a grave ! 10 It was a vision to haunt us, that innocent face — So pale in its aspect, so fair in its grace ; As the tramp of the horse and the bay of the hound, With the fetters that gall, were trailing the ground 1 She was nerv'd by despair, and strengthened by woe, As she leap'd o'er the chasms that yawn' d from below; Death howl'd in the tempest, and rav'd in the blast, But she heard not the sound till the danger was past. Oh ! how shall I speak of my proud country's shame ? Of the stains on her glory, how give them their name ? How say that her banner in mockery waves — Her " star-spangled baunei-" — o'er millions of slaves ? How say that the lawless may torture and chase A woman whose crime is the hue of her face ? How the depths of the forest may echo around With the shrieks of despair, and the bay of the hound? With her step on the ice, and her arm on her child, The danger was fearful, the pathway was wild ; But, aided by Heaven, she gained a free shore, Where the friends of humanity open'd their door. So fragile and lovely, so fearfully pale, Like a lily that bends to the breath of the gale, Save the heave of her breast, and the sway of her hair, You'd have thought her a statue of fear and despair. 11 In agony close to her bosom slie press'd The life of her heart, the child of her breast : — Oh ! love from its tenderness gathering might, Had strengthen'd her soul for the dangers of flight. But she's free ! — yes, free from the land where the slave From the hand of oppression must rest in the grave ; Wiiere bondage and torture, where scourges and chains Have plac'd on our banner indelible stains. The bloodhounds have miss'd the scent of her way ; The hunter is rifled and foil'd of his prey ; Fierce jargon and cursing, with clanking of chains, Make sounds of strange discord on Liberty's plains. With the rapture oflove and fulness of bliss, She plac'd on his brow a mother's fond kiss : — Oh ! poverty, danger and death she can brave, Fot the child of her love is no longer a slave ! ETHIOPIA. Yes ! Ethiopia yet shall stretch Her bleeding hands abroad ; Her cry of agony shall reach The burning throne of God, 12 The tyrant's yoke from off her neck, His fetters from her soul, The mighty hand of Grod shall break, And spurn the base control. Redeemed from dust and freed from chains, Her sons snail lift their eyes } From cloud-capt hills and verdant plains Shall shouts of triumph rise. Upon her dark, despairing brow, Shall play a smile of peace ; For God shall bend unto her wo, And bid her sorrows cease. 'Neath sheltering vines and stately palms Shall laughing children play, And aged sires with joyous psalms Shall gladden every day. Secure by night, and blest by day. Shall pass her happy hours ; Nor human tigers hunt for prey Within her peaceful bowers. Then, Ethiopia ! stretch, oh ! stretch Thy bleeding hands abroad ; Thy cry of agony shall reach And find redress from Grod. 13 THE DRUNKARD'S CHILD. He stood beside his dying child, With a dim and bloodshot eye ; They'd won him from the haunts of vice To see his first-born die. He came with a slow and staggering tread, A vague, unmeaning stare, And, reeling, clasped the clammy hand, So deathly pale and fair. In a dark and gloomy chamber, Life ebbing fast away, On a coarse and wretched pallet, The dying sufferer lay : A smile of recognition Lit up the glazing eye ; '^ I'm very glad,'' it seemed to say, ^^ You've come to see me die." That smile reached to his callous heart, Its sealed fountains stirred ; He tried to speak, but on his lips Faltered and died each word. And burning tears like rain Poured down his bloated face. Where guilt, remorse and shame Had scathed, and left their trace. 14 " My father V said the dying child, (His voice was faint and low^) " Oh ! clasp me closely to your heart, And kiss me ere I go. Bright angels beckon me away, To the holy city fair — Oh ! tell me, father, ere I go. Say, will you meet me there ?" He clasped him to his throbbing heart,