The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/What Is A Slave, Mother

What Is A Slave, Mother
What is a slave, mother?—I heard you say That word with a sorrowful voice, one day; And it came again to my thoughts last night, As I laid awake in the broad moonlight; Methinks I have heard a story told, Of some poor men, who are bought and sold, And driven abroad with stripes to toil, The live-long day on a stranger's soil; Is this true mother?

May children as young as I be sold, And torn away from their mother's hold— From home—from all they have loved and known, To dwell in the great wide world alone, Far, far away in some distant place, Where they never may see their parents’ face? Ah! how I should weep to be torn from you! Tell me, dear mother, can this be true? Alas, yes, my child.

Does the master love the slave child well, That he takes away in his house to dwell? Does he teach him all that he ought to know, And wipe his tears when they sometimes flow— And watch beside him in sickness and pain, Till health comes back to his cheek again— And kneel each night by his side to pray, That God will keep him through life's rough way? Alas, no, my child.

Ah, then must the tales I have heard be true, Of the cruel things that the masters do; That the poor slaves often must creep to bed, On their scatter'd straw, but scantily fed; Be sometimes loaded with heavy chains; And flogg'd till their blood the keen lash stains; While none will care for their bitter cry, Or soothe their hearts when their grief is high. It is so, my child.

And is it not, mother, a sinful thing, The bosoms of others with pain to wring— To bid them go labour and delve the soil, And seize the reward of their weary toil— For men to tear men from their homes away, And sell them for gold, like a lawful prey! Oh surely the land where such deeds are done, Must be a most savage and wicked one! It is this, my child.