[Freedom’s Journal, 6/8/1827]
The following lines come to us from one of the sons of Africa, and prove we think that this race, depressed, degraded, and trampled upon as they are by the whites, are not entirely brainless, as some seem to suppose. Enlighten and educate, and thus raise the character of this people,—let them know that we do not regard them as beasts that perish, but as immortals like ourselves,—and the difference between them and us, will only be seen in the complexion —New-Haven Chronicle.
THE BLACK BEAUTY
Written from Solomon’s Songs.
“ Black, I am, oh ! daughters fair,”
But by beauty is most rare ;
Black, indeed, appears my skin,
Beauteous, comely, all within :
Black when by affliction press’d,
Beauteous, when in Christ I rest;
Black by sins defiling flood,
Beauteous, wash’d in Jesus’ blood :
Black, I am in mine own eyes,
Beauteous in my Lord’s I rise ;
Black I am to men ‘tis true ;
Beauteous, in the angels’ view :
Black, if Jesus frowns awhile,
Beauteous, when I see him smile ;
Black, while in the tomb I lie,
Beauteous, when I mount the sky !
The following was written for the national Jubillee, July 4, 1826, by the same person and published in the public Journals, in a sister state.
THE SORROWS OF ANGOLA
Hail, the enrapturing Jubilee !
Tis fifty years to-day,
Since this great nation was made free
From despotism’s sway.
While music, bells and cannons peal,
To hail the festive day,
The thoughts within my bosom steal,
Of helpless—Africa !
Now. Freedom’s sons, in splendid trains,
Rush forth, to greet the day ;
But never strive to burst the chains,
Of captive—Africa !
Both young and old attend the scene,
The noble and the gay ;
But no ta tender tear is seen,
For weeping—Africa !
Both bards and orators unite
To aid the grand display,
But never once the wrongs recite,
Of injured—Africa !
O, Freedom ! offspring of the skies !
When shall we bless the day,
When thy bright genial sun shall rise,
On hapless—Africa !
From the Morning Chronicle
There is a song-
How wildly sweet, we never may forget.
It steals along
Ere the cold tumult of the world is met ;
It tells of hearts more gay and forms more fair
Than ever crossed us in life’s wilderness,
And many a form of loveliness in there
Wooing us to its shadowy caress.
Those notes are flying
O’er the young heart while sorrow is afar.
More softly sighing
Than even thy fabled music Chindara ;
Oh earth for thee but one such strain can bring-
One fleeting strain- to bless its pathway cold,
And but one touch draws music from that string
The echo of young hearts ere life is old.