 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
99
THE SLAVE MOTHER'S PRAYER.
O Thou, who hear'st the feeblest prayer,
The humblest heart dost see,
Upon the chilly midnight air
I pour my soul to thee!
The humblest heart dost see,
Upon the chilly midnight air
I pour my soul to thee!
I bend a form with ceaseless toil
Consuming all the day;
And raise an eye that wets the soil,
As wears my life away.
Consuming all the day;
And raise an eye that wets the soil,
As wears my life away.
I lift a hand that 's only freed
Until to-morrow's task;
But how, O God, does nature bleed
Upon the boon I ask!
Until to-morrow's task;
But how, O God, does nature bleed
Upon the boon I ask!
How wretched must that mother be,
(And I'm the hapless one,)
Who begs an early grave of thee,
To shield her only son!
(And I'm the hapless one,)
Who begs an early grave of thee,
To shield her only son!
I would not that my boy were spared
To curse his natal hour;
To drag the chains his birth prepared,
Beneath unfeeling power.
To curse his natal hour;
To drag the chains his birth prepared,
Beneath unfeeling power.
Then, ere the nursling at my breast
Shall feel the tyrant's rod,
O lay his little form at rest
Beneath the quiet sod!
Shall feel the tyrant's rod,
O lay his little form at rest
Beneath the quiet sod!
100
And when before thine awful throne
My master shall appear,
A naked spirit, to atone
For all his dealings here,—
My master shall appear,
A naked spirit, to atone
For all his dealings here,—
If pardoning grace can be bestowed,
And Heaven has pity then,
For him, who here no pity showed
Towards his fellow-men,
And Heaven has pity then,
For him, who here no pity showed
Towards his fellow-men,
Thou 'lt spare him, in thy mercy, Lord,
The sinner's fearful doom—
The wages, for his just reward,
Of death beyond the tomb.
The sinner's fearful doom—
The wages, for his just reward,
Of death beyond the tomb.
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |