But oft, ere that repose is found,
The men of Belial crowd the road,
And dare to visit holy ground,
And stand among 'the sons of God;'
Where demon art the balance holds,
To weigh the truth the priest untolds;
Or basely—and by civil test,
Confound the freedom of the blest,
With freedom to the slave;
And boldy charge THAT priest to flee,
Or try, with cruel mockery,
And doom him to the grave.

The negro, branded at the mart,
Pours fourth in vain the rending sigh;
A single bid will quail his heart,
And sever each domestic tie;
And wheresoe'er his feet may roam,
His manhood never will know a home!
No wife to sooth, or raise his head!
No infant child to cheer his shed,
Or fan affection's flame!
His grave is distant and alone.
The spot by wife and babes unknown—
No tablet for his name.

Not one of all the infant throng,
That lies upon a mother's knee,
But gives to agony—a tongue,
Unknown to children of the free;
Unknown to those whose tears but flow
From transient fits of tiny woe,
And who, like troubled sea birds, cry,
While passing through the stormy sky,
And then—upon the wave—
As softly fall as gleams of light,
And float in beauty to the sight,
All fearless as a grave.

Ah! no—to babes in slavery born,
Few are the sea and skies serene,
All ruthless, from a mother torn,
Her weeping images ill is seen;
Her distant voice they seem to hear,
In lingering tones on memory's ear;
Now echoing sweet—now wildly roll
Through all the regions of the soul—
Then soft—and far away—
Like music on the midnight lake,
Till, starting from the dream, they wake
To misery a prey.

Nor say, the mother cannot fee,
At whom the poisoned dart is flung;
The body owns the quivering steel,
The tortured wild cat loves her young;
And can she from her babes depart,
Whose life strings twine around her heart—