O, slave mother, hope! see—­the nation is shaking! 
  The arm of the Lord is awake to thy wrong! 
The slave-holder’s heart now with terror is quaking,
  Salvation and Mercy to Heaven belong! 
Rejoice, O rejoice! for the child thou art rearing,
  May one day lift up its unmanacled form,
While hope, to thy heart, like the rain-bow so cheering,
  Is born, like the rain-bow, ’mid tempest and storm.

THE BLIND SLAVE BOY.

Air—­Sweet Afton.

Come back to me, mother! why linger away
From thy poor little blind boy, the long weary day! 
I mark every footstep, I list to each tone,
And wonder my mother should leave me alone! 
There are voices of sorrow, and voices of glee,
But there’s no one to joy or to sorrow with me;
For each hath of pleasure and trouble his share,
And none for the poor little blind boy will care.

My mother, come back to me! close to thy breast
Once more let thy poor little blind one be pressed;
Once more let me feel thy warm breath on my cheek,
And hear thee in accents of tenderness speak! 
O mother!  I’ve no one to love me—­no heart
Can bear like thine own in my sorrows a part;
No hand is so gentle, no voice is so kind,
O! none like a mother can cherish the blind!

Poor blind one!  No mother thy wailing can hear,
No mother can hasten to banish thy fear;
For the slave-owner drives her, o’er mountain and wild,
And for one paltry dollar hath sold thee, poor child! 
Ah! who can in language of mortals reveal
The anguish that none but a mother can feel,
When man in his vile lust of mammon hath trod
On her child, who is stricken and smitten of God!

Blind, helpless, forsaken, with strangers alone,
She hears in her anguish his piteous moan,
As he eagerly listens—­but listens in vain,
To catch the loved tones of his mother again! 
The curse of the broken in spirit shall fall
On the wretch who hath mingled this wormwood and gall,
And his gain like a mildew shall blight and destroy,
Who hath torn from his mother the little blind boy!

YE SONS OF FREEMEN.

Air—­Marseilles Hymn.

Ye sons of freemen wake to sadness,
  Hark! hark, what myriads bid you rise;
Three millions of our race in madness
  Break out in wails, in bitter cries,
  Break out in wails, in bitter cries,
Must men whose hearts now bleed with anguish,
  Yes, trembling slaves in freedom’s land,
  Endure the lash, nor raise a hand? 
Must nature ’neath the whip-cord languish? 
    Have pity on the slave,
    Take courage from God’s word;
Pray on, pray on, all hearts resolved—­these captives shall be free.