Anti Slavery Poems II, vol 3, part 2 | Page 7

relatives in his native

State of Delaware, he was dragged from the house of his friends by a
mob of slave-holders and brutally maltreated. He bore it like a martyr
of the old times; and when released, told his persecutors that he forgave
them, for it was not they but Slavery which had done the wrong. If they
should ever be in Philadelphia and needed hospitality or aid, let them
call on him.
I.
FRIEND of the Slave, and yet the friend of all;
Lover of peace,
yet ever foremost when
The need of battling Freedom called for men

To plant the banner on the outer wall;
Gentle and kindly, ever at
distress
Melted to more than woman's tenderness,
Yet firm and
steadfast, at his duty's post
Fronting the violence of a maddened host,

Like some gray rock from which the waves are
tossed!
Knowing
his deeds of love, men questioned not
The faith of one whose walk
and word were
right;
Who tranquilly in Life's great task-field
wrought,
And, side by side with evil, scarcely caught
A stain upon
his pilgrim garb of white
Prompt to redress another's wrong, his own

Leaving to Time and Truth and Penitence alone.
II.
Such was our friend. Formed on the good old plan,
A true and
brave and downright honest man
He blew no trumpet in the
market-place,
Nor in the church with hypocritic face
Supplied with
cant the lack of Christian grace;
Loathing pretence, he did with
cheerful will
What others talked of while their hands were still;

And, while "Lord, Lord!" the pious tyrants cried,
Who, in the poor,
their Master crucified,
His daily prayer, far better understood
In
acts than words, was simply doing good.
So calm, so constant was his
rectitude,
That by his loss alone we know its worth,
And feel how
true a man has walked with us on earth.
6th, 6th month, 1846.
SONG OF SLAVES IN THE DESERT.
"Sebah, Oasis of Fezzan, 10th March, 1846.--This evening the female
slaves were unusually excited in singing, and I had the curiosity to ask
my negro servant, Said, what they were singing about. As many of

them were natives of his own country, he had no difficulty in
translating the Mandara or Bornou language. I had often asked the
Moors to translate their songs for me, but got no satisfactory account
from them. Said at first said, 'Oh, they sing of Rubee' (God). 'What do
you mean?' I replied, impatiently. 'Oh, don't you know?' he continued,
'they asked God to give them their Atka?' (certificate of freedom). I
inquired, 'Is that all?' Said: 'No; they say, "Where are we going? The
world is large. O God! Where are we going? O God!"' I inquired,
`What else?' Said: `They remember their country, Bornou, and say,
"Bornou was a pleasant country, full of all good things; but this is a bad
country, and we are miserable!"' `Do they say anything else?' Said: 'No;
they repeat these words over and over again, and add, "O God! give us
our Atka, and let us return again to our dear home."'
"I am not surprised I got little satisfaction when I asked the Moors
about the songs of their slaves. Who will say that the above words are
not a very appropriate song? What could have been more congenially
adapted to their then woful condition? It is not to be wondered at that
these poor bondwomen cheer up their hearts, in their long, lonely, and
painful wanderings over the desert, with words and sentiments like
these; but I have often observed that their fatigue and sufferings were
too great for them to strike up this melancholy dirge, and many days
their plaintive strains never broke over the silence of the desert."--
Richardson's Journal in Africa.
WHERE are we going? where are we going,
Where are we going,
Rubee?
Lord of peoples, lord of lands,
Look across these shining
sands,
Through the furnace of the noon,
Through the white light of
the moon.
Strong the Ghiblee wind is blowing,
Strange and large
the world is growing!
Speak and tell us where we are going,
Where
are we going, Rubee?
Bornou land was rich and good,
Wells of water, fields of food,

Dourra fields, and bloom of bean,
And the palm-tree cool and green

Bornou land we see no longer,
Here we thirst and here we hunger,

Here the Moor-man smites in anger
Where are we going, Rubee?

When we went from Bornou land,
We were like the leaves and sand,

We were many, we are few;
Life has one, and death has two

Whitened bones our path are showing,
Thou All-seeing, thou
All-knowing
Hear us, tell us, where are we going,
Where are we
going, Rubee?
Moons of marches from our eyes
Bornou land behind us lies;

Stranger round us day by day
Bends the desert circle gray;
Wild the
waves of sand are flowing,
Hot the winds above them blowing,--

Lord of all things! where are we going?
Where are we going, Rubee?
We are weak, but Thou art strong;
Short our lives, but Thine is long;

We are blind, but Thou hast eyes;
We are fools, but Thou art wise!

Thou,