The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Story-Telling

by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler

Story-Telling

Come to the green-wood with me, gentle friend!
I know a hidden dell, where the chafed stream
Goes bounding playfully with child-like mirth,
Over its stony path, and flinging up
Its waves, with seeming petulance, in foam.
The bank slopes down unevenly, but wears,
Like Fairy, a gay mantelet of green,
All border'd daintily with bright-hued flowers;
The gray old trees bend over it, and up
Among their twisted boughs, an ancient vine
Hath strongly wreathed its stem. Below, it bends
In wayward convolutions o'er the stream,
Offering a couch where thou may'st safely sit,
While I recline beside thee on the turf;
Will not the vine-leaves shade us pleasantly,
While we discourse together? wilt thou sing?
Or shall we tell sad stories? One I read
But yesterday, that lingers with me still,
Haunting my memory with its thoughts of woe;
'T was of a dark-brown slave—one whose bright days
Of early infancy had pass'd beneath
The glowing sun of Africa. She was torn,
Ere her tenth summer, from the sight of all
That made her childhood happy, and the spring
Of all the buoyant hopes that make young hearts
So blissful in their dreams, was crush'd at once.
She was a sad-eyed girl—she never met
In revel scenes, with those who flung aside
Their sorrows for mad joyance; but a gleam
Of something like to bliss stole o'er her heart,
When one, who shared her infant sports, would speak
Of those remembered hours. She wedded him;
And years of spirit-wearing toil went by,
Even amidst her bonds, with almost happiness.
He could not brook his chains: a quenchless fire
Was in his spirit, and he burst all ties
That bound his heart—he left her, and was free;
She bore her sorrows patiently, and scarce
Let fall a tear-drop; but the gentle ones
That call'd her mother, were more closely bound
In her bereaved affections; and their love
Was all that warm'd the pulses of her heart.
Then came another and a darker blight:
They were torn from her, one by one, and sold,
Those nestlings of her heart; and she grew wild
With her exceeding anguish, and her cry
Went forth in accusation up to heaven.
She wander'd o'er each spot where they had been,
Calling their names, and mourning with a grief
That had no comforter; until at length
The springs of life were wasted; and she laid
At twilight hour, her head upon the turf
In dying feebleness. There came one by,
Who would have spoke her kindly then, and soothed
The parting spirit; but the time was past;
She raised her head a moment, and once more
Repeated the sad burden of her grief:
“Me have no children, massa, no one child!”
And her last cry was hush'd!