The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Doom
Doom edit
Be hush'd, triumphant sounds! ye bring not now
A gush of pride along the glowing brow;
Ye wake no more a dream of future fame,
And added glory to my country's name;
Ye only mind me of her crimson'd hands,
Her sullied faith, her broken treaty-bands.
Oh, better far contrition, sad and mute,
Or tearful prayers her guilty lip would suit,—
Joy not for her—the hearts her sin hath crush'd,
With groans return your shouts—proud sounds, be hush'd.
Lo! yonder where the starry flag streams free,
And swift the light bark cleaves the foaming sea,—
There bursting hearts, in hopeless anguish torn
From all they love, to distant lands are borne,
In wild despairing groans they breathe their woe,
And call on those they ne'er shall view below,
As thoughts that framed their deepest bliss, but now
Send added torture to the burning brow;
While fated still her wonted chain to wear,
And all the weight of lonely bondage bear,
In shrieks, the frantic mother, from the shore,
Beholds them sever to return no more.
And are there none to whose relentless breast
The Afric's plea is not in vain address'd?
Who shame them not to own his kindred claim,
And gift the negro with a brother's name?
Ay, there are some—some hearts that yet can feel,
And dare defend his rights and guard his weal,
Some few, who shrink not from the oppressor's power,
Nor leave him helpless in his gloomy hour.
A fire is lit on Freedom's holiest shrine,
That yet o'er Afric's midnight sky shall shine;
For this shall woman's prayers to heaven ascend,
Her breath shall fan it, and her care attend;
Thus swift from heart to heart the flame shall run,
And triumph crown the work, but now begun.