The Liberty Minstrel - George Washington Clark

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But trees that were as sapling twigs, with broad and shadowing bough,

       Around the well-known threshhold spread a freshening coolness now.

       The birds whose notes I used to hear, were shouting on the earth,

       As if to greet me back again with their wild strains of mirth;

       My own bright stream was at my feet, and how I laughed to lave

       My burning lip, and cheek, and brow, in that delicious wave!

       My boy, my first-born babe, had died amid his early hours,

       And there we laid him to his sleep among the clustering flowers;

       Yet lo! without my cottage-door he sported in his glee,

       With her whose grave is far from his, beneath yon linden tree.

       I sprang to snatch them to my soul; when breathing out my name,

       To grasp my hand, and press my lip, a crowd of loved ones came!

       Wife, parents, children, kinsmen, friends! the dear and lost ones all,

       With blessed words of welcome came, to greet me from my thrall.

       Forms long unseen were by my side; and thrilling on my ear,

       Came cadences from gentle tones, unheard for many a year;

       And on my cheeks fond lips were pressed, with true affection's kiss—

       And so ye waked me from my sleep—but 'twas a dream of bliss!

       Table of Contents

      Words by the Slaves. Music by G.W.C.

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       See these poor souls from Africa,

       Transported to America;

       We are stolen, and sold to Georgia, will you go along with me?

       We are stolen and sold to Georgia, go sound the jubilee.

       See wives and husbands sold apart,

       The children's screams!—it breaks my heart;

       There's a better day a coming, will you go along with me?

       There's a better day a coming, go sound the jubilee.

       O gracious Lord! when shall it be,

       That we poor souls shall all be free?

       Lord, break them Slavery powers—will you go along with me?

       Lord, break them Slavery powers, go sound the jubilee.

       Dear Lord! dear Lord! when Slavery'll cease,

       Then we poor souls can have our peace;

       There's a better day a coming, will you go along with me?

       There's a better day a coming, go sound the jubilee.

       Table of Contents

      Air, "Calvary."

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       Hark! I hear a sound of anguish

       In my own, my native land;

       Brethren, doomed in chains to languish,

       Lift to heaven the suppliant hand,

       And despairing,

       And despairing,

       Death the end of woe demand.

       Let us raise our supplication

       For the wretched suffering slave,

       All whose life is desolation,

       All whose hope is in the grave;

       God of mercy!

       From thy throne, O hear and save.

       Those in bonds we would remember

       As if we with them were bound;

       For each crushed, each suffering member

       Let our sympathies abound,

       Till our labors

       Spread the smiles of freedom round.

       Even now the word is spoken;

       "Slavery's cruel power must cease,

       From the bound the chain be broken,

       Captives hail the kind release,"

       While in splendor

       Comes to reign the Prince of Peace.

       Table of Contents

      Air—"Sparkling and Bright."

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       Solo. Heavy and cold in his dungeon hold, Is the yoke of the oppressor; Dark o'er the soul is the fell control Of the stern and dread transgressor. Chorus. Oh then come all to bring the thrall Up from his deep despairing, And out of the jaw of the bandit's law, Retake the prey he's tearing: O then come all to bring the thrall Up from his deep despairing, And out of the jaw of the bandit's law, Retake the prey he's tearing. Brothers be brave for the pining slave, From his wife and children riven; From every vale their bitter wail Goes sounding up to Heaven. Then for the life of that poor wife, And for those children pining; O ne'er give o'er till the chains no more Around their limbs are twining. Gloomy and damp is the low rice swamp, Where their meagre bands are wasting; All worn and weak, in vain they seek For rest, to the cool shade hasting; For drivers fell, like fiends from hell, Cease not their savage shouting; And the scourge's crack, from quivering back, Sends up the red blood spouting. Into the grave looks only the slave, For rest to his limbs aweary; His spirit's light comes from that night, To us so dark and dreary. That soul shall nurse its heavy curse Against a day of terror, When the lightning gleam of his wrath shall stream Like fire, on the hosts of error. Heavy and stern are the bolts which burn In the right hand of Jehovah; To smite the strong red arm of wrong, And dash his temples over; Then on amain to rend the chain, Ere bursts the vallied thunder; Right onward speed till the slave is freed— His manacles torn asunder.

      E.D.H.

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      Words by Longfellow. Theme from the Indian Maid.

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