Anthony Benezet
Friend of the Afric! friend of the oppress'd!
Thou who wert cradled in a far-off clime,
Where bigotry and tyranny unbless'd,
With gory hand defaced the page of time;
Wert thou forth driven by their stern control,
An infant fugitive across the deep,
To teach, in after years, thy pitying soul
O'er all the Afric's causeless wrongs to weep,
Where slavery's bitter tears the flag of freedom steep?
And thou didst nobly plead for them; thy heart,
Thrilling to all the holy sympathies,
Of natural brotherhood, wept, to see the mart
Of commerce, with its human merchandize,
So crowded and polluted, and thy voice,
With the clear trumpet tones of God's own word,
Rang through the guilty crowd, until no choice
Was left them but to tremble as they heard,
Or bind with treble seal the feelings thou hadst stirr'd.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Night
Earth! thou art lovely, when the sinking sun
Hath bathed the clouds in his departing flush,
And, with the moon-lit evening, hath begun
The voiceless, and yet spirit-calming hush,
That thrills around the heart, till tear-drops rush,
Unbidden and uncall'd for, to the eye;
When, save the music of the fountain's gush,
Or the far wailing of the night-bird's cry,
Unbroken silence hangs o'er earth, and wave, and sky.
But now the majesty of midnight storm
Is gathering, in its grandeur, o'er the sky;
The deep black clouds in mustering squadrons form,
And the low, fitful blast, that passes by,
Hath a strange fearful thrilling—like the sigh
Of a sick slumberer; even that hath died,
And in their quiet sleep the waters lie,
As though the winds ne'er curl'd them in its pride,
Or shook the still bent leaves that hang above the tide.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Noah
The ark was resting on the mountain's side,
And those who dwelt beneath its sheltering veil,
Look'd forth upon the earth—that sight denied
Their anxious gaze so long!—their cheeks grew pale
As Noah moved the covering from their frail,
Yet safe abode of refuge; for they thought
Of those dark hours, when, ever on the gale,
The voice of ruin and despair was brought,
Telling how wide a scathe destruction's hand had wrought.
And now they look'd abroad upon the scene
With a sick, painful interest, and a dread
Of seeing—what till now had only been
A picture of their thoughts—before them spread
In all its dark reality. The dead,
The guilty dead, seem'd rising to their sight,
As when in sinful happiness, their tread
Pass'd gayly o'er the earth, ere that long night
Of utter darkness pass'd above them with its blight.
Then how could those lone dwellers of the earth—
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Aline
How very beautiful
The creatures of this earth can sometimes be!
Aline was one of such; the summer rose
Hath not a petal fairer than her cheek,
Nor hath the light of the out-breaking sun
More radiant gladness than her beaming smile.
Her heart was full of gushing happiness.
The common air—the unfolding of a flower—
The voice of streams—the music of a bird
Was joy to her; and her glad spirit breathed
Its light o'er all around: Yet her soft eye
Was readier than a child's to fill with tears
For human sorrow; and her heart pour'd out
Its large affections over all that lived.
There was no selfishness in its young pulse;
Its thoughts were full of God, and all He made
To breathe upon the earth shared in her love,
And the upswelling of her sympathies.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Devoted
It was a beautiful turn given by a great lady, who being asked where
her husband was, when he lay concealed for having been deeply concerned
in a conspiracy, resolutely answered, that she had hidden him. This confession
caused her to be carried before the governor, who told her that
nought but confessing where she had hidden him, could save her from the
torture. “And will that do?” said she. “Yes,” replied the governor, “I
will pass my word for your safety, on that condition.” “Then,” replied
she, “I have hidden him in my heart, where you may find him.”
Stern faces were around them bent, and eyes of vengeful ire,
And fearful were the words they spake of torture, stake, and fire:
Yet calmly in the midst she stood, with eye undimm'd and clear,
And though her lip and cheek were white, she wore no sign of fear.
“Where is thy traitor spouse?” they said;—a half-form'd smile of scorn,
That curl'd upon her haughty lip, was back for answer borne;—
“Where is thy traitor spouse?” again, in fiercer notes, they said,
And sternly pointed to the rack, all rusted o'er with red!
Her heart and pulse beat firm and free—but in a crimson flood,
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Depths of the Sea
Depths of the fathomless sea,
What do you hold in your caves?
Motionless hearts that bounded free,
And many a costly argosie,
That gallantly rode on your waves?
Yes! motionless hearts are there,
And many a glassy eye—
And many a gem of price ye bear,
Ingots of gold and spices rare,
That in the salt wave lie.
Oh, if the dead could speak,
What a tale might ye unfold!
Of the roaring surge and the blanching cheek,
Of the crashing mast, and the one wild shriek,
As the waters over them roll'd!
The weary sailor sleeps
In your beautiful coral bowers;
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Conscript's Farewell
Farewell, father;—
I had hoped that I should be
In thine age a staff for thee;
But when years have mark'd thy brow,
When thy step is weak and slow,
When thy hair is thin and white,
And thine eye hath lost its light,
I shall never seek thy side,
And thy faltering footsteps guide.
Where my country's banners fly
Proudly ‘neath a distant sky,
To the battle forth I speed,
There to fight and there to bleed;
Not because the foeman's lance
Glitters in the vales of France;
Not because a stranger's mirth
Rises round my father's hearth;
Not at glory's trumpet call,
Nor in freedom's cause to fall;
But because ambitious power
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Soldier's Prayer
Garden, in his “Anecdotes of the Revolution,” when describing the
sufferings of the army, mentions the circumstance of a soldier having
earnestly entreated permission to visit his family, which was refused, on
the ground that the same favour must be granted to others, who could not
be spared without weakening the army, whose strength was already reduced
by sickness. He acquiesced in the justice of the denial, but added,
that to him refusal would be death. He was a brave and valuable soldier,
and apparently in health at the time;—but his words were verified.
I care not for the hurried march through August's burning noon,
Nor for the long cold ward at night, beneath the dewy moon;
I've calmly felt the winter's storms, o'er my unshelter'd head,
And trod the snow with naked foot, till every track was red!
My soldier's fare is poor and scant—'t is what my comrades share,
Yon heaven my only canopy—but that I well can bear;
A dull and feverish weight of pain is pressing on my brow,
And I am faint with recent wounds—for that I care not now.
But oh, I long once more to view my childhood's dwelling-place,
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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Schuylkill
WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM
Sun-lit and shadow'd waters, leaping by
'Midst flowers and greenness, singing as they pass,
Or sleeping in some deep and shaded pool,
Lake-like, and dimpled by the playful touch
Of stooping branches, rocks vine-garlanded,
And the green pleasant woods, and over all
The wide blue glorious sky—oh it is sweet
To breathe amid such scenes!
Look on the page
Of Schuylkill's pictured beauty! that is such—
And thou may'st gaze, till it shall waken thoughts
Treasured in memory—for thou hast watch'd
The flashing of its waters, and hast stood,
Perchance, beside them, when the moonlight made
The scene a paradise, and friends were nigh,
Smiling with their glad eyes upon thy joy;
And music floated off upon the air,
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Outcast
“There is a race of people inhabiting the Vale of Lieze,
on the French side of the Pyrenees, who are supposed to be
descended from the Saracens, and are entirely excluded from
communion with the rest of mankind.—They are even obliged to
enter the churches by a separate door, and no one will make use
of the holy water which their touch has polluted.”
The vineyards of France ‘neath their fruitage were bending,
And spread their rich clusters of blue to the sun,
And high o'er the steep of the mountain ascending,
The soft voice of song, with wild merriment blending,
Told where the gay harvester's toil was begun.
The sun its last glance o'er the landscape was flinging,
And sounds from afar came distinctly and clear;
The birds from each covert their vespers were singing,
And far in the vale the deep convent-bell ringing,
Sent up its sad tones to the wanderer's ear.
He flung himself down with an aspect of sadness,
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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