The Young Slave's Belief.
What you term stars in yonder skies
Are lovelier far—they 're angel's eyes;
And when looks dim that glorious throng,
They weep that those they love do wrong:
The soft and murmuring winds you hear
Are sighs that precede the coming tear:
My Mother's, 'mong them, oft in showers
I've knelt me down and pray'd for hours,
Hoping a tear from her bright eye
Might fall upon her orphan boy.
You've heard the thunder's awful crash,
And seen the lightning's vivid flash:
'Tis "him" in anger, "he" who gave
Life to the White man and the Slave;
Who will demand the reason why
You thus enslave his Indian Boy;
Will judge us by the heart within,
Nor heed the color of the skin."
Who, in the possession of happiness, would be mad enough to prefer an hour to a day; a day to a week; a week to a month; or a month to a year? yet is time preferred to eternity!
