“My child, we must soon part, to meet no more this side of the grave. You have ever said that you would not die a slave; that you would be a free man. Now try to get your liberty!"—W. W. BROWN’S NARRATIVE.
I’ve wandered out beneath the moonlit heaven,
Lost mother! loved and dear,
To every beam a magic power seems given
To bring thy spirit near;
For though the breeze of freedom fans my brow,
My soul still turns to thee! oh, where art thou?
Where art thou, mother? I am weary thinking;
A heritage of pain and woe
Was thine,—beneath it art thou slowly sinking,
Or hast thou perished long ago?
And doth thy spirit ’mid the quivering leaves above me,
Hover, dear mother, to guard and love me?
I murmur at my lot: in the white man’s dwelling
The mother there is found;
Or he may tell where spring-buds first are swelling
Above her lowly mound;
But thou,—lost mother, every trace of thee
In the vast sepulchre of Slavery!
Long years have fled, since sad, faint-hearted,
I stood on Freedom’s shore,
And knew, dear mother, from thee I was parted,
To meet thee never more;
And deemed the tyrant’s chain with thee were better