 | Poems, Original & Selected |  |
3
THE BLIND SLAVE BOY.
Come back to me, mother, why linger away
From thy poor blind boy the long weary day.
I mark every footstep, I list to each tone,
And wonder my mother should leave me alone.
There are voices of sorrow and voices of glee,
But there's no one to joy or sorrow with me,
For each has of pleasure and trouble his share,
And none for the poor little blind boy will care.
From thy poor blind boy the long weary day.
I mark every footstep, I list to each tone,
And wonder my mother should leave me alone.
There are voices of sorrow and voices of glee,
But there's no one to joy or sorrow with me,
For each has of pleasure and trouble his share,
And none for the poor little blind boy will care.
My mother, come back to me, close to thy breast
Once more let the little blind one be press'd;
Once more let me feel thy warm breath on my cheek,
And hear thee in accents of tenderness speak.
Oh, mother, I've no one to love me—no heart
Can bear like thy own in my sorrow a part;
No hand is so gentle, no voice is so kind,
Oh none like a mother can cherish the blind.
Once more let the little blind one be press'd;
Once more let me feel thy warm breath on my cheek,
And hear thee in accents of tenderness speak.
Oh, mother, I've no one to love me—no heart
Can bear like thy own in my sorrow a part;
No hand is so gentle, no voice is so kind,
Oh none like a mother can cherish the blind.
Poor blind one, no mother thy wailing can hear,
No mother can hasten to banish thy fear,
For the slave owner drives her o'er mountain and wild,
And for one paltry dollar hath sold the poor child.
Ah! who can in language of mortals reveal
The anguish that none but a mother can feel,
When man in his vile lust, Mammon hath trod
On her child who is stricken and smitten of God.
No mother can hasten to banish thy fear,
For the slave owner drives her o'er mountain and wild,
And for one paltry dollar hath sold the poor child.
Ah! who can in language of mortals reveal
The anguish that none but a mother can feel,
When man in his vile lust, Mammon hath trod
On her child who is stricken and smitten of God.
Blind, helpless, forsaken, with strangers alone,
She hears in anguish his piteous moan,
As he eagerly listens, he listens in vain.
To catch the loved tones of his mother again:
The curse of the broken in spirit shall fall
On the wretch who hath mingled his wormwood with gall:
And his gains like a mildew shall blight and destroy
Who hath torn from his mother the little blind boy.
She hears in anguish his piteous moan,
As he eagerly listens, he listens in vain.
To catch the loved tones of his mother again:
The curse of the broken in spirit shall fall
On the wretch who hath mingled his wormwood with gall:
And his gains like a mildew shall blight and destroy
Who hath torn from his mother the little blind boy.
| Poems, Original & Selected | |