Yes, down into the tomb!—Down, down I say,To its dark depths!I do not fear its gloom,And for its shelterEarnestly I pray.The world is hideous—Heaven seems afar;Despair o'ershadows me;Its darkness to dispel,Hope has no kindly star.Ah, me! how frailAre…
The trembling dew-drops fall
Upon the shutting flowers; like souls at rest,
The stars shine gloriously; and all
Save me, are blest.
Mother, I love thy grave,
The violet, with its blossoms blue and mild,
Waves o'er thy head; when shall it…
I weep for thee! Thy miseries,
Though unspoken, deeply felt—
More deeply felt because unbreathed—
A sister's heart may melt.
I weep for thee, whose gen'rous love
Has blessed and sheltered me;
I weep for thee—may God above
In mercy look on…
"Died, at Rochester, Tuesday, March 13, 1860, Annie, youngest daughter of Frederick and Anna Douglass, aged 10 years, 11 months, and 21 days. Smitten with grief at the absence of her father, she pined away and died, her mind having become impressed…
Once in life's young, cheerful day,
Two youthful hearts were joined together—
One in sorrow, one in play,
So truly did they love each other.
Thus to maidenhood they grew:
Affection's chain so closely bound them
That 'twas useless, all well…
Little white hands,
Pale, pleading face,
Beseeching, imploring—
O! piteous case!
Hear the harsh answer—
See the rough blow;
Mad, like a torrent,
The bitter tears flow.
A demon the man,
An angel the wife;
Ill-mated, ill-fated—
Death wedded…
[The following sweet poem was read by the authoress at the re-opening of Colored Grammar School No. 1, March 12, 1860.—ED. ANGLO-AFRICAN]Take the footstool, little creature—
Place it very gently down;
Smooth the wrinkles very neatly
From the…
Crouching on the marble steps
That led into a house of prayer.
Sat a girl with face half hidden
'Neath a veil of tangled hair,
Looking like a fallen angel,
Come to find a shelter there.
Loudly blew the winds around her,
Coldly fell the…
The world, dear John, as the folks told us,
Is a world of trouble and care;
Many a cloud of grief will enfold us,
And the sunshine of grief is but rare.
But there's something yet to be bright and blest in,
No matter how humble the lot;
The…
Toussaint, the most unhappy of men!
Whether the whistling rustic tends his plough,
Within thy hearing, or thou liest now
Buried in some deep dungeon's carless den;—O, miserable chieftain! where and when
Wilt thou find patience? Yet, die not! Do…
