The Liberty Minstrel. George Washington Clark

       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.

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      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.

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      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]

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      Words by Cowper. Arranged

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