Poems (Gould, 1833)/The Slave Mother's Prayer
THE SLAVE MOTHER'S PRAYER.
O Thou, who hear'st the feeblest prayer, The humblest heart dost see,Upon the chilly midnight air I pour my soul to thee!
I bend a form with ceaseless toil Consuming all the day;And raise an eye that wets the soil, As wears my life away.
I lift a hand that's only freed Until to-morrow's task;But how, O God, does nature bleed Upon the boon I ask!
How wretched must that mother be, (And I 'm the hapless one,)Who begs an early grave of thee, To shield her only son!
I would not that my boy were spared To curse his natal hour;To drag the chains his birth prepared Beneath unfeeling power.
Then, ere the nursling at my breast Shall feel the tyrant's rod,O lay his little form at rest Beneath the quiet sod!
And when before thine awful throne My master shall appear,A naked spirit, to atone For all his dealings here;
If pardoning grace can be bestowed, And Heaven has pity then,For him, who here no pity showed Towards his fellow-men,
Thou 'lt spare him, in thy mercy, Lord, The sinner's fearful doom—The wages, for his just reward, Of death beyond the tomb.