The Fugitive’s Wife

It was my sad and weary lot To toil in slavery; But one thing cheered my lowly cot— My husband was with me. One evening, as our children played Around our cabin door, I noticed on his brow a shade I’d never seen before; And in his eyes a gloomy night Of anguish and despair;— I gazed upon their troubled light, To read the meaning there. He strained me to his heaving heart— My own beat wild with fear; I knew not, but I sadly felt There must be evil near. He vainly strove to cast aside The tears that fell like rain:— Too frail, indeed, is manly pride, To strive with grief and pain. Again he clasped me to his breast, And said that we must part: I tried to speak—but, oh! it seemed An arrow reached my heart. “Bear not,” I cried, “unto your grave, The yoke you’ve borne from birth; No longer live a helpless slave, The meanest thing on earth!”