The American Female Slave. LXXXVII. ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER. DAUGHTERS of the Pilgrim Sires, Look upon your country's slaves! Lament of the Free Africans for Mungo Park. P. M. JAMES. Where the wild Joliba Rolls its deep waters, Broad shadows are flinging, Each o'er her lone loom, Bent mournfully singing: Alas for the white man! o'er deserts a ranger,- Through the deep forest Fierce lions are prowling ; Mid thickets entangling, Hyenas are howling ; The American Female Slave. Look! 't is woman's streaming eye, These are woman's fettered hands, That to you, so mournfully, Lift sad glance, and iron bands. Scars are on her fettered limbs, 155 There should he wander, To his home, where the sun sets, Return shall be never : Alas for the white man! o'er deserts a ranger, No more shall we welcome the white-bosomed stranger. The hands of the Moor, In his wrath do they bind him? If the Savage Moor find him! Through darkness advancing, And his eyes' fiery glancing: Alas for the white man o'er deserts a ranger, No more shall we welcome the white-bosomed stranger. He launched his light bark, Our fond warnings despising, Where the day-beams are rising. 156 The American Female Slave. For the children of her love, For the parent forms that hung By her sad forsaken hearth, "T is for these she wildly grieves ! Now all scattered o'er the earth, Like the wind-strewn autumn leaves! His wife from her bower, Will look forth in her sorrow, But he ne'er shall return : To her hope of to-morrow: Alas for the white man! o'er deserts a ranger,- Oh, loved of the Lotus, Thy waters adorning ! Pour, Joliba! pour Thy full streams to the mourning! The Halcyon may take Thy light wave for her pillow, But wo to the white man, That trusts to thy billow: Alas for the white man! o'er deserts a ranger, No more shall we welcome the white-bosomed stranger. The American Female Slave. 157 Ev'n her babes so dear, so young, And so treasured in her heart, That the cords which round them clung, These, ev'n these where torn away! Then to still her frantic wo, The inhuman scourge was tried, Till the tears that ceased to flow, Were with redder drops supplied. And can you behold unmoved, Are not woman's pulses warm, Is it not a sister's form, On whose limbs those fetters rest? Oh then save her from a doom, Let her pass not to the tomb, Abolition of the Foreign Slave Trade. LXXXVIII.* To Thee, Almighty, gracious power, The nations heard his loud commands ! And gives the sweets of Liberty. Then strike the lyre:-your voices raise ! Shun sinful pleasure's giddy throng; Then, we our freedom shall retain, And golden harvests from the soil. * Sung at the Beston celebration of the Abolition of the Foreign Slave Trade, July 14, 1808. Sermon by Jedediah Morse, D. D. Remainder of the services by Rev. Mr. Blood, Rev. Mr. Channing, and Rev: Mr. Codman. |