"The Kneeling Slave"

-E.M. Chandler

PITY the Negro, lady! her's is not,

Like thine, a blessed and most happy lot!

Thou, shelter's 'neath a parent's tireless care,

The fondly loves, the theme of many a prayer;

Blessing and blest, amidst thy circling friends,

Whose love repays the joys thy presence lends,

Tread'st gaily onward, o'er thy path of flowers,

With ceaseless summer lingering round thy bowers.

But her - the outcast of a frowning fate,

Long, weary years of servile bondage wait.

Her lot uncheer's by Hope's reviving gale,

The lowest in life's graduated scale -

The few poor hours of bliss that cheer her still,

Uncertain pensioners on a master's will -

'Midst ceaseless toils renew'd from day to day,

She wears in bitter tears her life away.

She is thy sister, woman! shall her cry

Uncared for, and unheeded, pass thee by?

Wilt thou not weep to see her rank so low,

And seek to raise her from her place of woe?

Or has thy heart grown selfish in its bliss,

That thou should'st view unmoved a fate like this?