Oh, child! thou art a little slave;
      And all of thee that grows,
    Will be another’s weight of flesh,—­
      But thine the weight of wees
    Thou art a little slave, my child,
      And much I grieve and mourn
    That to so dark a destiny
      A lovely babe I’ve borne.

    And gladly would I lay thee down
      To sleep beneath the sod,
    And give thy gentle spirit back,
      Unmarr’d with grief, to God: 
    The tears I shed upon that turf
      Should whisper peace to me,
    And tell me in the spirit land
      My lovely babe was free.

    I then should know thy peace was sure,
      And only long to go
    The road which thou had’st gone, and wipe
      Away these tears that flow. 
    Death to the slave has double power;
      It breaks the earthly clod,
    And breaks the tyrant’s sway, that he
      May worship only God.

J.P.B.