A Negro-Mother's Cradle-Song, by Bernard Barton
Of thy mother's dark despair
Be accepted for thy sake,-
'Twere that thou no more shouldst wake,
Though a mother's love be mine,
And a daughter's fondness thine,
Yet, for thee, a parent's breath
Craves the boon of early death.
Worse to live a helpless slave,
Than to fill an early grave;
Better far the silent tomb,
Than the captive's hopeless doom.
White man's cruelty and lust
Cannot harm the lifeless dust;
Powerless the oppressor's rod,
Brandished o'er a senseless clod.
Ruthless lash, and galling chain,
Ceaseless tasks-performed with pain,
Nights of sorrow, days of toil--
These have made my life their spoil.
Such, with life, must be thy lot;
Dying-thou shalt know them not;-
O, be thine, all fetters breaking,
Sleep that knows on earth no waking!
Bernard Barton
Woodbridge,
4th of 6th Mo. 1826.