The Continental Monthly, Vol 3 No 3, March 1863

THE LADY AND HER SLAVE

A Tale.

LOVINGLY DEDICATED TO MY SISTERS IN THE SOUTH

'Nor private grief nor malice holds my pen,
I owe but kindness to my fellow men.
And, South or North, wherever hearts of prayer
Their woes and weakness to our Father bear,
Wherever fruits of Christian love are found
In holy lives, to me is holy ground.'

    —Whittier.

My young mistress! frown not on me! come! my heart is beating low!
Softly raise the quilt—my babe! Ah, smile on her ere I go!

Yes, the smile comes warm as sunshine, and it falls on my sick heart
As if Heaven were shining through it, and new hopes within me start.

Your clear eyes shine blue upon me through the clouds of sunny curls,
Sadder now, but still as kindly, as when we were little girls.

Your poor slave and you, fair mistress, were born in the same hour,
As if God himself had marked me from my birth to be your dower.

Oft have I laid my dusky hand upon your neck of snow,
To see it sparkle through the jet—how long that seems ago!

So long! before young master came to woo Virginia's daughter,
And tempt her to the cotton fields on Mississippi's water.

I could not leave you, mistress, so I followed to the swamp,
Where fevers fire the burning blood and the long moss hangs damp.

I left poor Sam, he loved me well, but you were my heart's god;
My mother's tears fell hot and fast—I followed where you trod.

Sin and sorrow fell upon me! and soon you felt it shame
To have lost Amy near you, and you blushed to hear her name.

Reared near virgin purity, you could not understand
How I could break from virtue's laws, and form a lawless band.

Then you questioned kindly, sternly,—but you could not make me tell;
I would not wring your trusting heart with tales scarce fit for hell!

You deemed me hardened, sunk in vice; I choked down every moan,
Turned from your breast the poisoned dart to bury in my own.

Driven from your presence, mistress, in agony and shame
I bore a wretched infant—she must never know her name!

How I crawled around your windows when your joyous boy was born,
To hear your voice, to catch a glimpse,—the sun rose fair that morn.

Ah! not mine to hold your darling! not mine to soothe his cries
When the stern death-angel seized him and bore him to the skies!

Then judgment came—the fever fell—young master gasped for breath—
God's hand was on him—vain were prayers,—how still he lay in death!

I heard you shriek—I rushed within—I held you in my arms
That frenzied night when sudden woe had wrought its worst of harms.

When reason dawned on you again, sweet pity stirred within,
You heard my cough, my labored breath, and saw me ghastly, thin.

Then you took my hand so kindly, gazing on my faded face:
'Speak, and tell me truly, Amy, how you fell in such disgrace.'

If he had lived, sweet mistress, I had borne it to the grave;
I would not mar your happiness, child, self or race to save.

Say! must I speak of one you loved now sleeping 'neath the sod?
Your 'yes' is bitter; but we owe the naked truth to God!

The truth to God, for guiltless you must stand before His face,
Nor wrong my pallid baby, nor scorn my suffering race.

Am I too bold? Death equals all—my heart beats faint and low;
Turn not away, sweet mistress, hear the truth before I go!

Gaze upon my shivering baby, scan the little pallid face,
Mark the forehead, eyes of azure—Ha! you do the likeness trace!

Nay, start not in horror from me! Oh, it was no fault of mine;
I would have died a thousand deaths ere wronged a thought of thine.

He came at midnight to my hut—abhorrent to my sense—
Force—threats of shame—foul violence—a slave has no defence!

Wronged—soiled—and outraged—sick at heart—what right had I to feel?
He deemed his chattel honored,—God! how brain and senses reel!

We're women, though our hair is crisped, and though our skin be black:
Men, ask your virgin daughters what's the maiden's deadliest rack!

I scorned myself! I hated him! but felt a living goad