The Liberty Minstrel | Page 5

would that I might die,
So from my swelling pulse I could forever cast them by!
And on,
away, o'er land and sea, my joyful spirit passed,
Till, 'neath my own
banana tree, I lighted down at last.
My cabin door, with all its flowers, was still profusely gay, As when I
lightly sported there, in childhood's careless day! But trees that were as
sapling twigs, with broad and shadowing bough, Around the
well-known threshhold spread a freshening coolness now.
The birds whose notes I used to hear, were shouting on the earth, As if
to greet me back again with their wild strains of mirth; My own bright
stream was at my feet, and how I laughed to lave My burning lip, and
cheek, and brow, in that delicious wave!
My boy, my first-born babe, had died amid his early hours,
And there
we laid him to his sleep among the clustering flowers; Yet lo! without
my cottage-door he sported in his glee,
With her whose grave is far
from his, beneath yon linden tree.
I sprang to snatch them to my soul; when breathing out my name, To
grasp my hand, and press my lip, a crowd of loved ones came! Wife,
parents, children, kinsmen, friends! the dear and lost ones all, With

blessed words of welcome came, to greet me from my thrall.
Forms long unseen were by my side; and thrilling on my ear, Came
cadences from gentle tones, unheard for many a year;
And on my
cheeks fond lips were pressed, with true affection's kiss-- And so ye
waked me from my sleep--but 'twas a dream of bliss!
SONG OF THE COFFLE GANG.[2]
[Footnote 2: This song is said to be sung by Slaves, as they are chained
in gangs, when parting from friends for the far off South--children
taken from parents, husbands from wives, and brothers from sisters.]
Words by the Slaves. Music by G.W.C.
[Music]
See these poor souls from Africa,
Transported to America;
We are
stolen, and sold to Georgia, will you go along with me? We are stolen
and sold to Georgia, go sound the jubilee.
See wives and husbands sold apart,
The children's screams!--it breaks
my heart;
There's a better day a coming, will you go along with me?

There's a better day a coming, go sound the jubilee.
O gracious Lord! when shall it be,
That we poor souls shall all be free?

Lord, break them Slavery powers--will you go along with me? Lord,
break them Slavery powers, go sound the jubilee.
Dear Lord! dear Lord! when Slavery'll cease,
Then we poor souls can
have our peace;
There's a better day a coming, will you go along with
me?
There's a better day a coming, go sound the jubilee.
HARK! I HEAR A SOUND OF ANGUISH.
Air, "Calvary."

[Music]
Hark! I hear a sound of anguish
In my own, my native land;

Brethren, doomed in chains to languish,
Lift to heaven the suppliant
hand,
And despairing,
And despairing,
Death the end of woe demand.
Let us raise our supplication
For the wretched suffering slave,
All
whose life is desolation,
All whose hope is in the grave;
God of mercy!
From thy throne, O hear and save.
Those in bonds we would remember
As if we with them were bound;

For each crushed, each suffering member
Let our sympathies
abound,
Till our labors
Spread the smiles of freedom round.
Even now the word is spoken;
"Slavery's cruel power must cease,

From the bound the chain be broken,
Captives hail the kind release,"
While in splendor
Comes to reign the Prince of Peace.
BROTHERS BE BRAVE FOR THE PINING SLAVE.
Air--"Sparkling and Bright."
[Music]
Solo.
Heavy and cold in his dungeon hold,
Is the yoke of the oppressor;

Dark o'er the soul is the fell control
Of the stern and dread
transgressor.
Chorus.

Oh then come all to bring the thrall
Up from his deep despairing,

And out of the jaw of the bandit's law,
Retake the prey he's tearing:

O then come all to bring the thrall
Up from his deep despairing,

And out of the jaw of the bandit's law,
Retake the prey he's tearing.
Brothers be brave for the pining slave,
From his wife and children
riven;
From every vale their bitter wail
Goes sounding up to
Heaven.
Then for the life of that poor wife,
And for those children
pining;
O ne'er give o'er till the chains no more
Around their limbs
are twining.
Gloomy and damp is the low rice swamp,
Where their meagre bands
are wasting;
All worn and weak, in vain they seek
For rest, to the
cool shade hasting;
For drivers fell, like fiends from hell,
Cease not
their savage shouting;
And the scourge's crack, from quivering back,

Sends up the red blood spouting.
Into the grave looks only the slave,
For rest to his limbs aweary;

His spirit's light comes from that night,
To us so dark and dreary.

That soul shall nurse its heavy curse
Against a day of terror,
When
the lightning gleam of his wrath shall stream
Like fire, on the hosts of
error.
Heavy and stern are the bolts which burn
In the right hand