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!”