Sleep, my child! and might the prayer

Of thy mother's dark despair

Be accepted for thy sake,—

’Twere that thou no more shouldst wake.

Though a mother's love be mine,

And a daughter's fondness thine,

Yet, for thee, a parent's breath

Craves the boon of early death.

Worse to live a helpless slave,

Than to fill an early grave;

Better far the silent tomb,

Than the captive's hopeless doom.

White man's cruelty and lust

Cannot harm the lifeless dust;

Powerless the oppressor's rod,

Brandish’d o’er a senseless clod.

Ruthless lash, and galling chain,

Countless tasks—performed with pain,

Nights of sorrow, days of toil—

These have made my life their spoil.

Such, with life, must be thy lot;

Dying—thou shalt know them not;—

O, be thine, all fetters breaking,

Sleep that knows on earth no waking!

Woodbridge, 4th ofth Mo. 1826.