The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Story-Telling

Story-Telling
Come to the green-wood with me, gentle friend! I know a hidden dell, where the chafed stream Goes bounding playfully with child-like mirth, Over its stony path, and flinging up Its waves, with seeming petulance, in foam. The bank slopes down unevenly, but wears, Like Fairy, a gay mantelet of green, All border'd daintily with bright-hued flowers; The gray old trees bend over it, and up Among their twisted boughs, an ancient vine Hath strongly wreathed its stem. Below, it bends In wayward convolutions o'er the stream, Offering a couch where thou may'st safely sit, While I recline beside thee on the turf; Will not the vine-leaves shade us pleasantly, While we discourse together? wilt thou sing? Or shall we tell sad stories? One I read But yesterday, that lingers with me still, Haunting my memory with its thoughts of woe; 'T was of a dark-brown slave—one whose bright days Of early infancy had pass'd beneath The glowing sun of Africa. She was torn, Ere her tenth summer, from the sight of all That made her childhood happy, and the spring Of all the buoyant hopes that make young hearts So blissful in their dreams, was crush'd at once. She was a sad-eyed girl—she never met In revel scenes, with those who flung aside Their sorrows for mad joyance; but a gleam Of something like to bliss stole o'er her heart, When one, who shared her infant sports, would speak Of those remembered hours. She wedded him; And years of spirit-wearing toil went by, Even amidst her bonds, with almost happiness. He could not brook his chains: a quenchless fire Was in his spirit, and he burst all ties That bound his heart—he left her, and was free; She bore her sorrows patiently, and scarce Let fall a tear-drop; but the gentle ones That call'd her mother, were more closely bound In her bereaved affections; and their love Was all that warm'd the pulses of her heart. Then came another and a darker blight: They were torn from her, one by one, and sold, Those nestlings of her heart; and she grew wild With her exceeding anguish, and her cry Went forth in accusation up to heaven. She wander'd o'er each spot where they had been, Calling their names, and mourning with a grief That had no comforter; until at length The springs of life were wasted; and she laid At twilight hour, her head upon the turf In dying feebleness. There came one by, Who would have spoke her kindly then, and soothed The parting spirit; but the time was past; She raised her head a moment, and once more Repeated the sad burden of her grief: “Me have no children, massa, no one child!” And her last cry was hush'd!