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George Moses Horton. Poems by a Slave. Philadelphia: s.n., 1837.

George Moses Horton. Poems by a Slave. Philadelphia: s.n., 1837.

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George Moses Horton. Poems by a Slave. Philadelphia: s.n., 1837.


In the public domain and may be used without copyright restriction.




Never, till death's resistless blow,
Whose call the dearest must obey--
In twain together then may go,
And thus together dwell for aye.

Say to the suitor, Come away,
Nor break the knot which love has tied--
or to the world thy trust betray,
Arid fly for ever from thy bride.


And wilt thou, love, my soul display,
And all my secret thoughts betray?
I strove, but could not hold thee fast,
My heart flies off with thee at last.

The favorite daughter of the dawn,
On love's mild breeze will soon be gone;
I strove, but could not cease to love,
Nor from my heart the weight remove .

And wilt thou, love, my soul beguile ,
And gull thy fav'rite with a smile !
Nay, soft affection answers, nay,
And beauty wings my heart away.

I steal on tiptoe from these bowers,
All spangled with a thousand flowers ;
I sigh, yet leave them all behind,
To gain the object of my mind.

And wilt thou, love, command my soul,
And waft me with a light control ?--
Adieu to all the blooms of May,
Farewell--I fly with love away !

I leave my parents here behind,
And all my friends--to love resigned--
'Tis grief to go, but death to stay :
Farewell--I'm gone with love away !



Alas ! and am I born for this,
To wear this slavish chain ?
Deprived of all created bliss,
Through hardship, toil and pain !

How long have l in bondage lain,
And languished to be free !
Alas ! and must I still complain--
Deprived of liberty.

Oh, Heaven ! and is there no relief
This side the silent grave--
To soothe the pain--to quell the grief
And anguish of a slave ?

Come Liberty, thou cheerful sound,
Roll through my ravished ears !
Come, let my grief in joys be drowned ,
And drive away my fears.

Say unto foul oppression, Cease :
Ye tyrants rage no more,
And let the joyful trump of peace,
Now bid the vassal soar.

Soar on the pinions of that dove
Which long has cooed for thee,
And breathed her notes from Afric's grove ,
The sound of Liberty.

Oh, Liberty ! thou golden prize,
So often s011ght by blood--
We crave thy sacred sun to rise,
The gift of nature's God!

Bid Slavery hide her haggard face,
And barbarism fly :
I scorn to see the sad disgrace
In which enslaved I lie.

Dear Liberty ! upon thy breast,
I languish to respire;
And like the Swan unto her nest,
I'd to thy smiles retire.