What Is A Slave, Mother
What is a slave, mother?—I heard you say
That word with a sorrowful voice, one day;
And it came again to my thoughts last night,
As I laid awake in the broad moonlight;
Methinks I have heard a story told,
Of some poor men, who are bought and sold,
And driven abroad with stripes to toil,
The live-long day on a stranger's soil;
Is this true mother?
May children as young as I be sold,
And torn away from their mother's hold—
From home—from all they have loved and known,
To dwell in the great wide world alone,
Far, far away in some distant place,
Where they never may see their parents’ face?
Ah! how I should weep to be torn from you!
Tell me, dear mother, can this be true?
Alas, yes, my child.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Looking At The Soldiers
“Mother, the trumpets are sounding to-day,
And the soldiers go by in their gallant array!
Their horses prance gaily, their banners float free,
Come, come to the window, dear mother, with me.
“Do you see how their bayonets gleam in the sun,
And their soldier-plumes nod, as they slowly march on?
And look to the regular tread of their feet!
Keeping time to the sound of the kettle-drum's beat.
“This, mother, you know, is a glorious day,
And Americans all should be joyous and gay;
For the Fourth of July saw our country set free;
But you look not delighted, dear mother, like me!”
“No, love; for that shining and brilliant display,
To me only tells of war's fearful array;
And I know that those bayonets, flashing so bright,
Were made in man's blood to be spoil'd of their light.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Kingfisher
A newspaper paragraph gives an account of the instance of maternal affection in a bird, which has been made the subject of the following lines,
The kingfisher sat on her hidden nest,
Shielding her young with a downy breast;
She had built her home where the wave went by,
Soothing her ear with its melody;
And the wild white blossoms bent to dip
In the rushing waves, their thirsty lip.
Pleasant it was while the skies were fair,
And perfume flung on the sunny air,
While the wind in a low sweet whisper died,
Ere it could ruffle the flowing tide;
And the arching skies o'er the waters threw
The deep clear tint of their own pure blue.
But what that is bright on earth may last?
Soon were the days of her sunshine past;
On came the storm-winds muttering loud,
Sweeping before them the thunder-cloud;
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works
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Evening Thoughts
How beautiful
The calm earth resteth in her quiet sleep!
There are no sounds of human life abroad,
And the soft voice of that one bird, whose plaint
Melteth upon the ear so soothingly,
Seems but the low breeze moulded into sound.
The shadows of the trees distinctly lie
Upon the earth unstirring, and no breath
Comes whispering among the tender leaves,
To wake them into playfulness.
The sky
Bendeth in loveliness above the earth,
With a few clouds drawn o'er it, beautiful
In the soft light, and exquisitely pure,
As if they knew no other home than heaven.
Oh, thus it is, God of the universe!
That thou wouldst sanctify with thy rich grace,
Our erring human hearts, that we might be,
When from the earth our day of life hath pass'd,
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Appeal of the Choctaw
We cannot leave our fathers’ land!
We cannot leave our fathers’ graves!
The long-loved hills that round us stand—
Our valleys, with their pleasant waves.
Oh, bid us not to trace afar,
The pathway of the evening star;
We cannot find, where'er we roam,
A spot which bears, like this, the name of home!
What though the western forest rise,
More tall, more darkly close, than these;
And calm the stately wild deer lies,
In slumber ‘neath the stately trees;—
Though hill and vale are passing fair,
And all seems bright and lovely there,
We cannot love the beauteous spot,
To us the great Manitto gave it not!
What care we for those prairies wide?
Our fathers never hunted there;—
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Genius of Painting
ADDRESSED TO D——M——
The Genius of Painting one summer eve stray'd,
In a moment of leisure, to Flora's bright bower,
Where, scatter'd around, by the hand of the maid,
In the richest profusion, bloom'd many a flower.
“Oh, see,” Flora cried, as the Genius drew nigh,
“What an Eden of beauty is blossoming here!
But yet”—and a tear-drop stood bright in her eye,—
“How soon will its loveliness all disappear!
“Oh Genius! bid them still live in your art,
And my gratitude well shall your kindness repay;
To some favour'd mortal your spirit impart,
And teach him to rescue my flowers from decay.”
Behold I have rear'd, in my favourite bower,
A shrine, and an altar, dear Painting, for you;
And there will I offer each loveliest flower,
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Twilight Thoughts
The sun hath set in glory—and a fold
Of burnish'd purple lies upon the sky,
Like the rich thought of some just parted joy,
Yet thrilling vividly around the heart.
The year's first sunset;—'t is most beautiful!
Would it might be an augury of good
To the fair land it shines on. But, alas!
What may we hope of blessing for the head
Of unrepenting guilt;—or, for the hand
—Red with the stain of murder, full of wrong
And foul oppression—shamelessly stretch'd out
To scatter to the winds the solemn oaths
Of broken treaty bands. The red man looks
Across his fathers’ lands, and thinks how once
They fed the white-brow'd stranger, when he came
With his weak hand to their low forest hut,
And they could well have crush'd him. Now he seeks
From the poor wasted remnant of their sons,
To rend their last few acres,—sacred spots
Where the dead lie unsepulchred!—and drive
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Death
I have been gazing on the resting place
Of the cold sleepers of the earth—who trod
This busy planet for a little space,
Then laid them down, and took the verdant sod
To curtain the low cot wherein they slept,
Forgotten save by some few hearts that o'er them wept.
'T is strange—so lately they were living forms,
Breathing and moving; now the vernal sun
Looks down upon their silent graves, nor warms
One pulse to action—life with them is done;
And the turf blooms as quietly, as though
No forms of human mould were slumbering below.
And this shall be my lot!—a little while,
And I shall, too, lie down and be at rest,
In silence and in darkness; earth will smile
In spring's rich garniture, and o'er my breast
The wild-flower shed its sweets—but there will be
No gladness in bright hues or fragrant breath for me.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Wife's Lament
Loud howls the wintry blast, the rain descends,
And patters heavy on the ice-glazed roof;
But yet he comes not. 'T is a dreary night—
Long since, the midnight bell hath toll'd the hour.
And long, long since, my womanish fears had framed
Some reason dread, for absence thus prolong'd,
But that so oft 't is thus. Oh! had I once
But even thought that thus thy love might change,
I should have shudder'd at the bare surmise,
And chid myself in anger for the thought.
But now, I feel it true, and yet I live,
I live to feel thy heart, thyself estranged,
From all that once it loved—to sit alone,
And number out the weary midnight hours
That waste with thee in revelry and mirth,
And weep in sadness at thy long delay.
Oh, Henry! once—but I will not look back,
Nor think of present, past, or future scenes,
Or thought would madden me. But hark! again
The watch proclaims the second morning hour,
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Negro Father's Lamentation Over the Body of His Infant Son
Thou'rt dead, my boy!—my son!—my only child!—
And yet I may not shed one tear for thee,
Nor hanging o'er thy bier in anguish wild,
Upbraid the hand that bore thee far from me:
I cannot wish that thou hadst lived to share
Thy father's fate—his woes—and his despair!
I loved thee—oh! I need not say how well!
Thou wert my all of hopes or bliss on earth!
Yet I will not repine that thou dost dwell
In happiness, with her who gave thee birth,
While I, like yon dark rock of naked stone,
Must bear the storms that round me beat, alone.
'T is well! Thou wilt not share those storms with me,
That is my all of comfort in this hour—
I weep not, though I would have died for thee!
Ay, more than died— that sacrifice were poor—
I would have spurn'd the hand that set me free,
And clasp'd my chain, and lived a slave, for thee.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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