Newfound Poems from Forest Leaves (ca. 1840)
SOURCE: Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, “Haman and Mordecai,” “A Dream,” “The Felon’s Dream,” Forest Leaves (Baltimore: James Young, ca. 1840).
“Haman and Mordecai”
He stood at Persia’s Palace gate
And vassal round him bow’d,
Upon his brow was written hate
And he heeded not the crowd.
He heeded not the vassal throng
Whose praises rent the air,
His bosom shook with rage and scorn
For Mordecai stood there.
When ev’ry satrap bow’d
To him of noble blood,
Amid that servile crowd
One form unbending stood.
And as he gaz’d upon that form,
Dark flash’d his angry eye,
’Twas as the light’ning ere the storm
Hath swept in fury by.
On noble Mordecai alone,
He scorn’d to lay his land;
But sought an edict from the throne
’Gainst all the captive band.
For full of pride and wrath
To his fell purpose true,
He vow’d that from his path
Should perish ev’ry Jew.
Then woman’s voice arose
In deep impassion’d prayer,
Her fragile heart grew strong
’Twas the nervings of despair.
The king in mercy heard
Her pleading and her prayer,
His heart with pity stirr’d,
And he resolved to spare.
And Haman met the fate
He’d for Mordecai decreed,
And from his cruel hate
The captive Jews are freed.
“A Dream”
I had a dream, a varied dream,
A dream of joy and dread;
Before me rose the judgment scene
For God had raised the dead.
Oh for an angel’s hand to paint
The glories of that day,
When God did gather home each saint
And wipe their tears away.
Each waiting one lifted his head
Rejoic’d to see him nigh,
And earth cast out her sainted dead
To meet him in the sky.
Before his white and burning throne
A countless throng did stand;
Whilst Christ confess’d his own,
Whose names were on his hand.
I had a dream, a varied dream,
A dream of joy and dread;
Before me rose the judgment scene
For God had rais’d the dead.
Oh for an angel’s hand to paint
The terrors of that day,
When God in vengeance for his saints
Girded himself with wrath to slay.
But, oh the terror, grief, and dread,
Tongue can’t describe or pen portray;
When from their graves arose the dead,
Guilty to meet the judgment day.
As sudden as the lightning’s flash
Across the sky doth sweep,
Earth’s kingdom’s were in pieces dash’d,
And waken’d from their guilty sleep.
I heard the agonizing cry,
Ye rocks and mountains on us fall,
And hide us from the Judge’s eye,
But rocks and mounts fled from the call.
I saw the guilty ruin’d host
Standing before the burning throne,
The ruin’d, lost forever lost,
Whom God in wrath refus’d to own.
“The Felon’s Dream”
He slept, but oh, it was not calm,
As in the days of infancy;
When sleep is nature’s tender balm
To hearts from sorrow free.
He dream’d that fetters bound him fast,
He pin’d for liberty;
It seem’d deliverance came at last
And he from bonds were free.
In thought he journey’d where
Familiar voices rose,
Where not a brow was dim with care,
Or bosom heav’d with woes.
Around him press’d a happy band;
His wife and child drew near;
He felt the pressure of her hand,
And dried each falling tear.
His tender mother cast aside
The tears that dim’d her eye;
His father saw him as the pride
Of brighter days gone by.
He saw his wife around him cling,
He heard her breathe his name;
Oh! woman’s love ’s a precious thing,
A pure undying flame.
His brethren wept for manly pride,
May bend to woman’s tears;
Then welcom’d round their fireside
The playmate of departed years.
His gentle sister fair and mild
Around him closely press’d,
She clasp’d his hand and smil’d
Then wept upon his breast.
All, all were glad around that hearth,
They hop’d his wanderings o’er;
That weary of the strange cold earth
He’d roam from them no more.
’Twas but a dream, ’twas fancy’s flight
It mock’d his yearning heart;
It made his bosom feel its blight,
It probed him like a dart.
A prison held his fettered limbs,
Confinement was his lot,
No kindred voice rose to cheer,
He seem’d by friends and all forgot.
Later Poems
SOURCE: Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, “Eliza Harris,” “The Slave Auction,” “The Drunkard’s Child,” “The Revel,” “Ethiopia,” “The Fugitive’s Wife,” Poems on Miscellaneous Subjects (Boston: J. B. Yerrinton & Son, 1855).
“Eliza Harris”
Like a fawn from the arrow, startled and wild,
A woman swept by us, bearing a child;
In her eye was the night of a settled despair,
And her brow was o’ershaded with anguish and care.
She was nearing the river—in reaching the brink,
She heeded no danger, she paused not to think!
For she is a mother—her child is a slave—
And she’ll give him his freedom, or find him a grave!
’Twas a vision to haunt us, that innocent face—
So pale in its aspect, so fair in its grace;
As the tramp of the horse and the bay of the hound,
With the fetters that gall, were trailing the ground!
She was nerved by despair, and strengthen’d by woe,
As she leap’d o’er the chasms that yawn’d from below;
Death howl’d in the tempest, and rav’d in the blast,
But she heard not the sound till the danger was past.
Oh! how shall I speak of my proud country’s shame?
Of the stains on her glory, how give them their name?
How say that her banner in mockery waves—
Her “star-spangled banner”—o’er millions of slaves?
How say that the lawless may torture and chase
A woman whose crime is the hue of her face?
How the depths of forest may echo around
With the shrieks of despair, and the bay of the hound?
With her step on the ice, and her arm on her child,
The danger was fear
ful, the pathway was wild;
But, aided by Heaven, she gained a free shore,
Where the friends of humanity open’d their door.
So fragile and lovely, so fearfully pale,
Like a lily that bends to the breath of the gale,
Save the heave of her breast, and the sway of her hair,
You’d have thought her a statue of fear and despair.
In agony close to her bosom she press’d
The life of her heart, the child of her breast:—
Oh! love from its tenderness gathering might,
Had strengthen’d her soul for the dangers of flight.
But she’s free!—yes, free from the land where the slave
From the hand of oppression must rest in the grave;
Where bondage and torture, where scourges and chains
Have plac’d on our banner indelible stains.
The bloodhounds have miss’d the scent of her way;
The hunter is rifled and foil’d of his prey;
Fierce jargon and cursing, with clanking of chains,
Make sounds of strange discord on Liberty’s plains.
With the rapture of love and fullness of bliss,
She plac’d on his brow a mother’s fond kiss:—
Oh! poverty, danger and death she can brave,
For the child of her love is no longer a slave!
“The Slave Auction”
The sale began—young girls were there,
Defenseless in their wretchedness,
Whose stifled sobs of deep despair
Revealed their anguish and distress.
And mothers stood, with streaming eyes,
And saw their dearest children sold;
Unheeded rose their bitter cries,
While tyrants bartered them for gold.
And woman, with her love and truth—
For these in sable forms may dwell—
Gazed on the husband of her youth,
With anguish none may paint or tell.
And men, whose sole crime was their hue,
The impress of their Maker’s hand,
And frail and shrinking children too,
Were gathered in that mournful band.
Ye who have laid your loved to rest,
And wept above their lifeless clay,
Know not the anguish of that breast,
Whose loved are rudely torn away.
Ye may not know how desolate
Are bosoms rudely forced to part,
And how a dull and heavy weight
Will press the life-drops from the heart.
“Lines”
SOURCE: Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, “Lines,” National Anti-Slavery Standard, November 29, 1856.
At the Portals of the Future,
Full of madness, guilt and gloom,
Stood the hateful form of Slavery,
Crying, Give, Oh! give me room—
Room to smite the earth with cursing,
Room to scatter, rend and slay,
From the trembling mother’s bosom
Room to tear her child away;
Room to trample on the manhood
Of the country far and wide;
Room to spread o’er every Eden
Slavery’s scorching lava-tide.
Pale and trembling stood the Future,
Quailing ’neath his frown of hate,
As he grasped with bloody clutches
The great keys of Doom and Fate.
In his hand he held a banner
All festooned with blood and tears:
’Twas a fearful ensign, woven
With the grief and wrong of years.
On his brow he wore a helmet
Decked with strange and cruel art;
Every jewel was a life-drop
Wrung from some poor broken heart.
Though her cheek was pale and anxious,
Yet, with look and brow sublime,
By the pale and trembling Future
Stood the Crisis of our time.
And from many a throbbing bosom
Came the words in fear and gloom,
Tell us, Oh! thou coming Crisis,
What shall be our country’s doom?
Shall the wings of dark destruction
Brood and hover o’er our land,
Till we trace the steps of ruin
By their blight, from strand to strand?
“Bible Defence of Slavery”
Version 1
SOURCE: Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Forest Leaves (Baltimore: James Young, ca. 1840).
Take sackcloth of the darkest dye,
And shroud the pulpits round!
Servants of Him that cannot lie,
Sit mourning on the ground.
Let holy horror blanch each cheek,
Pale every brow with fears;
And rocks and stones, if ye could speak,
Ye well might melt to tears!
Let sorrow breathe in every tone,
In every strain ye raise;
Insult not God’s majestic throne
With th’ mockery of praise.
A “reverend” man, whose light should be
The guide of age and youth,
Brings to the shrine of Slavery
The sacrifice of truth!
For the direst wrong by man imposed,
Since Sodom’s fearful cry,
The word of life has been unclos’d,
To give your God the lie.
Oh! When ye pray for heathen lands,
And plead for their dark shores,
Remember Slavery’s cruel hands
Version 2
SOURCE: Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, Poems on Miscellaneous Subjects (Boston: J. B. Yerrinton & Son, 1855).
Take sackcloth of the darkest dye
And shroud the pulpits round,
Servants of him that cannot lie
Sit mourning on the ground.
Let holy horror blanche each cheek,
Pale ev’ry brow with fears,
And rocks and stones if ye could speak
Ye well might melt to tears.
Let sorrow breathe in ev’ry tone
And grief in ev’ry strain ye raise,
Insult not heaven’s majestic throne
With the mockery of praise.
A man whose light should be
The guide of age and youth,
Brings to the shrine of slavery
The sacrifice of truth.
For the fiercest wrong that ever rose
Since Sodom’s fearful cry,
The word of life has been unclos’d
To give your God the lie.
An infidel could do no more
To hide his country’s guilty blot,
Than spread God’s holy record o’er
The loathesome leprous spot.
Oh, when ye pray for heathen lands,
And plead for dark benighted shores,
Remember slavery’s cruel hands
Make heathens at your doors.
“The Drunkard’s Child”
He stood beside his dying child,
With a dim and bloodshot eye;
They’d won him from the haunts of vice
To see his first-born die.
He came with a slow and staggering tread,
A vague, unmeaning stare,
And, reeling, clasped the clammy hand,
So deathly pale and fair.
In a dark and gloomy chamber,
Life ebbing fast away,
On a coarse and wretched pallet,
The dying sufferer lay:
A smile of recognition
Lit up the glazing eye;
“I’m very glad,” it seemed to say,
“You’ve come to see me die.”
That smile reached to his callous heart,
It sealed fountains stirred;
He tried to speak, but on his lips
Faltered and died each word.
And burning tears like rain
Poured down his bloated face,
Where guilt, remorse and shame
Had scathed, and left their trace.
“My father!” said the dying child,
(His voice was faint and low,)
“Oh! clasp me closely to your heart,
And kiss me ere I go.
Bright angels beckon me away,
To the holy city fair—
Oh! tell me, Father, ere I go,
Say, will you meet me there?”
He clasped him to his throbbing heart,
“I will! I will!” he said;
His pleading ceased—the father held
His first-born and his dead!
The marble brow, with golden curls,
Lay lifeless on his breast;
Like sunbeams on the distant clouds
Which line the gorgeous west.
“The Revel”
“HE KNOWETH NOT THAT THE DEAD ARE THERE.”
In yonder halls reclining
Are forms surpassing fair,
And brilliant lights are shining,
But, oh! the dead are there!
There’s music, song and dance,
There’s banishment of care,
And mirth in every glance,
But, oh! the dead are there!
The wine cup’s sparkling glow
Blends with the viands rare,
There’s revelry and show,
But still, the dead are there!