The Slave-Auction by John Theophilus Kramer - HTML preview

THE SLAVE MINGO’S POEM.

To the Editor of the Boston Journal:

[The following remarkable poem was sent me from the South by a friend, who informs me that the author of it was a slave named Mingo, a man of wonderful talents, and on that account oppressed by his master. While in the slave-prison, he penciled this poetic gem on one of the beams, which was afterwards found and copied. My friend adds that Mingo did escape, at night, but was recaptured and destroyed by the bloodhounds. My friend promises to send other poems of his, which, he says, are in possession of Mingo’s aged wife.]

C. W.

Good God! and must I leave them now—

My wife, my children, in their woe?

’Tis mockery to say I’m sold—

But I forget these chains so cold,

Which goad my bleeding limbs, though high

My reason mounts above the sky.

Dear wife, they cannot sell the rose

Of love, that in my bosom glows.

Remember, as your tears may start,

They cannot sell th’ immortal part!

Thou sun, which lightest bond and free,

Tell me, I pray, is liberty

The lot of those who noblest feel,

And oftest to Jehovah kneel?

Then I may say, but not with pride,

I feel the rushings of the tide

Of reason and of eloquence,

Which strive and yearn for eminence.

I feel high manhood on me now,

A spirit-glory on my brow;

I feel a thrill of music roll,

Like angel harpings, through my soul,

While poesy, with rustling wings,

Upon my spirit rests and sings;

He sweeps my heart’s deep throbbing lyre,

Who touched Isaiah’s lips with fire.

To Plymouth Rock, ye breezes, bear

These words from me, as I would dare,

If I were free: Is not our God

Our common Father?—from the sod

He formed us all; then brothers—yes;

We’re brothers all, though some oppress,

And grind their equals in the dust.

O Heaven! tell me, is this just?

’Tis fiendish. No! I will not go,

And leave my children here in woe!

God help me! Out, bright dagger! gleam,

And find the coward’s heart, and stream

With fiendish blood! This night, this night,

Or I am free, or it shall smite

The master and his slave, and we

Will seek the heavenly liberty!

There will my master’s bloody lash

No longer lacerate * * *

NOTE. The last line was, from some cause, incomplete; perhaps his feelings overcame him at the conception. I concluded to give it as it was. C. W.