Anti Slavery Bugle

POETRY,

For the Bugle,

THE SLAVE'S APPEAL.

Hold, master, hold; that arm of thine,
Uplifted o'er thy cringing slave,
May crush these trembling limbs of mine,
But oh! it has the power to save:

Oh, let me speak on bended knee,
At night and morn I'll pray for thee.

Spurn—spurn me not, 'tis nature pleads,
Within this yearning heart of mine,
While from my pathway hope recedes,
And coldly bids me 'bide my time:'

Around my way, how deep the gloom,
If slavery is my life-long doom.

I have a heart—a human heart,
Which fain its prison bars would burst
To feel no more the torturing smart
Entailed upon my lot unearned:

I have a heart, though dark my skin—
I have a human heart within.

For many a long and weary year,
I've freely toiled for thee and thine,
Though often doomed the lash to bear,
I scorn'd to murmur or repine;

I felt my wrongs, but dar'd not claim
My sacred rights in manhood's name.

Ah! ye may bind these limbs of mine,
May stretch me on the torturing rack,
May freely pour the cursed brine
Adown my bleeding, smarting back:

My heart is strong—I will not flinch—
Although ye tear me inch by inch.

I am a man! I know—I feel
That I was never, never born
Before my fellow man to kneel,
And meekly bear his cruel scorn

I cannot—will not be a slave,
Though freedom's path lies through the grave.

Parkman, O.
Pocahontas.