The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Twilight Thoughts

Twilight Thoughts
The sun hath set in glory—and a fold Of burnish'd purple lies upon the sky, Like the rich thought of some just parted joy, Yet thrilling vividly around the heart. The year's first sunset;—'t is most beautiful! Would it might be an augury of good To the fair land it shines on. But, alas! What may we hope of blessing for the head Of unrepenting guilt;—or, for the hand —Red with the stain of murder, full of wrong And foul oppression—shamelessly stretch'd out To scatter to the winds the solemn oaths Of broken treaty bands. The red man looks Across his fathers’ lands, and thinks how once They fed the white-brow'd stranger, when he came With his weak hand to their low forest hut, And they could well have crush'd him. Now he seeks From the poor wasted remnant of their sons, To rend their last few acres,—sacred spots Where the dead lie unsepulchred!—and drive The newly blest ones from their scarce found joys Of home and social love, to be again Sad houseless wanderers!

Years go circling by With all their rolling suns and changing scenes, In regular progression, and the slave Still bends his aching forehead to the toil That brings him no reward. Another year!— And still the Christian loads his brother's neck With the vile weight of fetters—tasks his arm And goads his sinews to their daily toil, With the keen lash, or, in the market-place, Bids him be number'd with the brute and sold! Another year! and shall that too go by, And find his wrongs uncared for? Shall he still Groan ‘neath his lot till life at last goes out, And win no sympathy? Oh ye who love Your Maker's image, even in the slave, Shake from your hearts all thoughts of selfishness, And with tears, prayers, and every energy, Stretch'd to its firmest purpose, in his cause, Cease not to plead, to struggle, to persuade, 'Till ye have won him back his long lost rights, Or your own hearts are slumbering in death