The Slave Mother

    Heard you that shriek？ It rose

    So wildly on the air，

    It seemed as if a burden'd heart

    Was breaking in despair.

    Saw you those hands so sadly clasped——

    The bowed and feeble head——

    The shuddering of that fragile form——

    That look of grief and dread？

    Saw you the sad， imploring eye？

    Its every glance was pain，

    As if a storm of agony

    Were sweeping through the brain.

    She is a mother pale with fear，

    Her boy clings to her side，

    And in her kirtle vainly tries

    His trembling form to hide.

    He is not hers， although she bore

    For him a mother's pains；

    He is not hers， although her blood

    Is coursing through his veins！

    He is not hers， for cruel hands

    May rudely tear apart

    The only wreath of household love

    That binds her breaking heart.

    His love has been a joyous light

    That o'er her pathway smiled，

    A fountain gushing ever new，

    Amid life's desert wild.

    His lightest word has been a tone

    Of music round her heart，

    Their lives a streamlet blent in one——

    Oh， Father！ must they part？

    They tear him from her circling arms，

    Her last and fond embrace.

    Oh！ never more may her sad eyes

    Gaze on his mournful face.

    No marvel， then， these bitter shrieks

    Disturb the listening air：

    She is a mother， and her heart

    Is breaking in despair.