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398 SELECTED POERTY.

Say, bear'st thou witness to no heart-wrung groan,
Bursting from sinless bosoms, which the hand
Of tyrant power hath severed from the band
Of the earth's holiest and dearest things,
And thrust amid thy darkness? Speak! declare
If only the rude felon's curse and prayer,
Mixed with wild wail and wilder laughter, rings
Within those dreary walls! Or if there be
No spirit fainting there with agony,
That not from its own crimes, but from oppression
springs!

3. Ha! am I answered? In that startling cry,
Bursting from some wild breast with anguish riven,
And rising up to register in heaven
Its blighting tale of outrage, the reply
Was heard distinctly terrible. It sprung
From a sad household group, who wildly clung
Together, in their frantic agony,
Till they were torn by savage hands apart,
Fond arms from twining arms, and heart from heart
Never to meet again! What had they done,
Thou tool of avarice and tyranny,
That they should thus be given o'er to thee
And thy guilt-haunted cells? Were sire and son,
Mother and babe, all partner's in one crime
As dreadful as the fate that through all time
Clings to them with a grasp they may not shun?

4. No!--let the tale be spoken, though it burn
The cheek with shame to breathe it--let it go
Forth to the winds, that the wide globe may know
Our vileness, and the rudest savage turn,
And point, with taunting finger, to the spot
Whereon thou standest; that all men may blot


SELECTED POETRY. 399

Our name with its deserved taint, and spurn
Out vaunting laws of justice with the heel
Of low contumely; that every peal
Of triumph may be answered with a shout
Of biting mockery; and our starry flag,
Our glorious banner, may dishonored drag
Its proud folds in the dust, or only float
The gales of heaven, to be a broader mark
For scorn to spit at. O, thou depot dark,
Where souls and human limbs are meted out

5. In fiendish traffic! No! those weeping ones 
Have done no evil; but their brother's hand
Hath rudely burst the sacred household band,
And given, with heart more flinty than thy stones,
His victims to thy keeping and thy chains,
Till he hath sold them!--them, within whose veins
Blood like his own is coursing, and whose moans
Are torn from hearts as deathless as his own!
And there thou stand'st, where Freedom's altar stone
Is darkened by thy shadows, and the cry
That thrills so fearfully upon the air,
With its wild tale of anguish and despair,
Blends with the peans that are swelling high,
To do her homage! I have sometimes felt
As I could hate my country for her guilt,
Until in bitter tears the mood went by.
ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER.

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-20 17:22:33