The Slave-Dowry
By the present law, the daughter of a slave-holder may receive slaves for her marriage-portion.
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I.
Oh! glad is many a youthful heart,
Amid yon festal throng,
As hand in hand through the ancient porch
They move in joy along;
And many a young and graceful form,
Stands by the altar's side,
And many a mildly laughing eye
Is turned upon the bride.
But no eye so bright--no form so light,
No cheek so passing fair,
No purer mind, and no heart more kind
Than her's, is beating there.
The gems that hang mid her raven locks,
Gleam like the stars of night;
The wreath of roses that binds her brow,
Bedims its lustrous white.
And the modest fear that gently shakes
Her rich and silken dress,
Like the night-breeze in the cypress boughs,
Adds grace to loveliness.
Well may her mother in such an hour
Gaze on her child with pride;
Well may her lover in rapture smile,
On his young stately bride.
The ring is passed--and the vows are spoke
By lisping lips and pale,
And the merry bells with loudest peal
Ring out their joyous tale.
Blessings are said,--and fairest flowers
Bestrew the holy ground,
And friends with whispered hopes and prayers,
Press eagerly around.
Joy! joy to the wedded pair,
The bridegroom and the bride!
In a world that holds such happiness
Can sorrow e'er abide?
II.
Turn thine eye to that bleeding slave!
With black and woolly hair,
And sable skin, and heavy lips,
There seems no beauty there!
But there are feelings keen and strong,
Feelings that will not rest;
Why doth she rend her sable locks,
And beat upon her breast?
Why gives she to the heedless air,
That low despairing cry?
Why turn to heaven, and not in hope,
Her large and throbbing eye?
Like Rachel, who in Rama wept,
With ceaseless anguish, wild,
Nor would be comforted:--she weeps,
The mother for her child.
He was her life; by wicked men
Tom from her kindred band,
She had no friend;--no comforter;--
A stranger in the land.
But he was all, to cheer her way,
To love her and to bless:
He was her all;--none shared with him
Her bosom's tenderness.
They forced him from her close embrace,
In that glad bridal hour;
The lady's wealth is in human limbs,
The price of blood her dower.
And that lone mother may return,
To her short and broken sleep;
At morning's dawn they'll drive her forth,
And flog her if she weep!
Well may she turn her eye to heaven,
And breathe her muttered prayer,
Suffering and sorrow are her lot,
But vengeance dwelleth there!
J. W.
Newcastle, 6th Mo.