201.

7s & 6s. MRS. COLBUrn.

1 HARK! hark! the clank of fetters,
From shady grove and dell;

A shriek, where freedom's martyrs
In mortal combat fell!

What! stripes, and chains, and fetters,
And this in freedom's land-
Where Liberty's proud altars,
And boasted temples stand!

2 Is this the home of freedom,
Of liberty and light,
Where millions grope in thraldom,
Deprived of law and right?
A refuge from oppression,

For Europe's sons to share,-
Whilst for a dark complexion,

Her own the chain must wear!

3 Say, is that voice of wailing,
That undissembled cry—
That tale the slave is telling,
Unworthy a reply?

O! shall their many sorrows,
Their dread of slavery's curse,
And all its endless horrors,
Unheeded be by us?

202.

P. M.

MRS. PRICE.

1 I PITY the slave mother, care-worn and weary,
Who sighs as she presses her babe to her breast;
I lament her sad fate, all so hopeless and dreary,
I lament for her woes, and her wrongs unredressed.

O, who can imagine her heart's deep emotion,
As she thinks of her children about to be sold!
You may picture the bounds of the rock-girdled
Ocean,

But the grief of that mother can never be told!

2 The mildew of slavery has blighted each blossom, That ever has bloomed on her path-way below; It has frozen each fountain that gushed in her bosom,

And chilled her heart's verdure with pitiless woe. Her parents, her kindred, all crushed by oppression; Her husband still doomed in its desert to stay; No arm to protect from the tyrant's aggressionShe must weep as she treads on her desolate way.

save?

3 0, who will pour balm o'er her cup full of sorrow? Where, where is the hand that is stretched out to [row, Dawns not for that slave mother one happy morEre she lays herself down in a merciless grave? O, slave-mother! is there no vision of gladness, In the far-coming future, to light up thy sky? Is there nothing for thee but hard toiling and sadness

No repose for thy form but to lie down and die?

4 O, slave-mother, hope; see, the nation is shaking! The arm of the Lord is awake to thy wrong! The slaveholder's heart now with terror is quaking

Salvation and mercy to heaven belong!
Rejoice, O rejoice! for the child thou art rearing,
May one day lift up its unmanacled form, [ing,
While hope to thy heart, like the rainbow so cheer-
Is born, like the rainbow, midst tempest and storm.

203.

P. M.

MRS. PRICE.

1 IN sweet southern vales where the orange trees

blossom, [plain; Where fragrance and sun-light are poured o'er the Where blessings are strew'd that might cheer ev'ry And beauty is lavished to banish all pain, [bosom, Dark stains of oppression dim ev'ry fair flower, And sighs of the weary are heard in each bower, While groans of affliction mark ev'ry sad hour That passes away in the land of the slave!

2 Affections are trampled, and manhood is blighted, And woman's tears mingle with childhood's distress;

The warnings of heaven are constantly slighted, And hated the hand that his brother would bless : O why comes the Spring to that blood-stained plantation?

Why streams the rich sun-light o'er man's degradation?

Why is mercy held out to this sin-harden'd nation, That crushes God's image so low in the dust?

arm;

3 But not on the whirlwind, with sword all upraised, Will our Father in Heaven make bare his strong [praised, With love will he come, while that power be it Will conquer the tyrant and rescue from harm: The bondman, the freeman will raise their glad

voices,

While the North claps her hands and triumphant rejoices,

As the anthem of Freedom, with myriads of voices, Shall burst in the chorus of transport and praise !

204.

C. M.

MRS. COLBURN.

1 SHALL Suff'ring bondmen be forgot,
Their sorrows and their tears?
The mis'ry of their wretched lot,
Their griefs and many fears?

2 Oh, shall their want, and woe, and pain,
Be never brought to mind?
The horror of the galling chain?
The aching limbs confined?

3 O no, we'll often think of them,
When life is fair and bright;

Their wrongs and woe shall be our theme,
In sorrow's gath'ring night.

4 We'll make their grief and pain our own, And all their suffering share;

And often at our Father's throne,
We'll plead their cause in prayer.

205.

P. M. J. HUTCHINSON.

1 O, DEEP was the anguish of the slave mother's

heart,

When called from her darling for ever to part;
So grieved that lone mother, that heart-broken

mother,

In sorrow and woe.

2 The harsh auctioneer, to sympathy cold, 'Tears the babe from its mother and sells it for gold; While the infant and mother loud shriek for each

other,

In sorrow and woe.

3 The child was borne off to a far distant clime, While the mother was left in anguish to pine; But reason departed, and she sank broken-hearted, In sorrow and woe.

4 O list, ye kind mothers, to the cries of the slave; The parents and children implore you to save; Go! rescue the mothers, the sisters and brothers, From sorrow and woe.

P. M.

E. WRIGHT JR.

206.
1 THE fetters galled my weary soul—

A soul that seemed but thrown away;
I spurned the tyrant's base control,

Resolved at last the man to play :The hounds are baying on my track; O Christian! will you send me back? 2 I felt the stripes, the lash I saw,

Red, dripping with a father's gore;
And worst of all their lawless law,
The insults that my mother bore!
The hounds are baying on my track,
O Christian will you send me back?
3 Where human law o'errules divine,

Beneath the sheriff's hammer fell
My wife and babes,-I call them mine,-
And where they suffer, who can tell?
The hounds are baying on my track,
O Christian! will you send me back?

4 I seek a home where man is man,
If such there be upon this earth,
To draw my kindred, if I can,

Around its free, though humble hearth.
The hounds are baying on my track,
O Christian! will you send me back?