The Dying Slave Mother

Reprint of the poem in the Vermont Telegraph March 9, 1842, p. 4                                                                          

 

                                                                 From the Liberty Bell

THE DYING SLAVE MOTHER

by g. s. burleigh

         Come to my dying bed,

         Brother, and raise my head,

That I may see yon sunset clouds awhile,

         That in bright colors drest,

         Hang o'er the blushing West.

Cloud upon cloud upheaved, a glorious pile!

 

         O, when the sun went down

         Last night, in shadows brown,

What then I saw no human tongue can tell \!

         On such a sunlit cloud,

         There came an angel crowd,

Such as afar In heaven's bright mansion dwell:

 

         And bending lowly down,

         Had lent to me a crown,

But that I had not quite forgiven the wrong,

         And all the evil done

         By the oppressive one,

Who long hath bound us in his fetters strong

 

         They turned, and in the sky

         Wheeled their bright ranks on high,

And waved the token from the clouds above,

         And as they soared, they sang

         Till heaven's blue temple rang

With songs of Hope, of Mercy, and of Love.

 

         I saw amid that band,

         With golden lyre in hand,

My murdered Leon, whom the robber slew;

         To me, how passing fair

         His ebon features were,

Amid that bright and glorious throng, to view.

 

         And there my darling boy

         Poured out such songs of joy,

As make my spirit leap with rapture now,

         While cherubs, rosy fair,

         Hovered above in air,

And bound a garland on his sable brow.

 

         Forward from his bright cloud,

         My gentle Leon bowed,

And smiling, waved to me his chainless hand,

         And still he swept the lyre

         In concert with the choir,

As camo his soft voice on the zephyrs bland.

 

         ‘Mother, O come to me!  

         Come where the slave is free,

ln the blest land where tears may never flow;

         Here is no coIling whip,

         Whose cruel lashes drip

With gore, as threatens in thy path below;

 

         ‘But all is joy, and peace,

         And love that cannot cease,

And rest, the hunted seek in vain on earth;

         The dark hue of the skin

         Is no foul mark of sin,

But hand in hand the ransomed all go forth.

 

         The holy men of old,

          of whom thou oft hast told,

When midnight bound the oppressor's eyes in sleep,

         They stand around the throne,

         To God, in solemn tone,

Sinking their lyre, with never-ceasing sweep.

 

         And 0! enthroned with Him,

         Whom all the Seraphim

With heart and tongue, in burning ranks, adore,

         And to whom Angels raise

         Loud songs of endless praise,

God in the highest, now, and evermore.

 

         ‘Is that meek Man of Woe,

         Who died long years ago,

On Calvary's brow, for men of every hue;

         O love Him ever, Mother!

         Like Him there is no other,

So meek, so gentle, and so Godlike too.

 

         ‘When Death's dark valley through,

         My trembling spirit flew,

I sunk in fear, to think that I was dead;

         But when the Saviour spake,

         Words of such kindness brake

From His pure lips, that all my terror fled.

 

         ‘Mother, O Mother, come!

         Come to thy peaceful home;

Here is no tyrant with his cruel chain ;

         But cherubs, all their days,

         Sing to the Lord in praise,—

And to the Lamb, that on the earth was slain.’

 

         Then, as their rapturous song

         Died on the air along,

And the soft sunshine faded from the sky,—

         The glittering ranks rolled back 

         Upon their joyous track,

And darkness settled on the dazzled eye.

 

         And, Brother! I will go,

         And leave this home of woe,

Its joys and griefs, its fetter-links, and thee,

         And with my Boy above,

         Join in sweet songs, of love

And praise to God, through all eternity!

 

         Upon yon cloud-hill’s brow,

         I see my Leon now,

Waving his hand from his bright home to me!

         O God! forgive the wrong,

         That man hath done me long.—

Brother, farewell! My Boy, I fly to thee!

 

Plainfield, Nov. 11, 1841