Thy Thunder Pealeth O'er Us
Thy thunder pealeth o'er us,
God of the earth and sky!
And o'er the gloomy heavens
The clouds roll dark and high.
But 't is not by thine anger,
Those flashing bolts are hurl'd,
To desolate and humble
A proud and guilty world.
Though awful in its grandeur
The storm o'ermounts the sky,
It bears from thee a blessing,
Beneath its scowling eye.
Behind its steps more radiantly
The deep blue heavens will shine,
And the glad earth, rejoicing,
Pour forth her corn and wine.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Where Are They?
I came to the halls of my fathers, and asked, “Where are they?”
and the echoes answered “where.”
Where are they? where! they all are gone,
Whose smiles were wont to answer mine,
When in the hours that long have flown,
These halls were fond affection's shrine?
Gray moss is on the smooth flag-stone,
That once was worn with bounding feet,
When eyes, now dim, all brightly shone,
And minstrel's song resounded sweet.
The harp still decks the mouldering walls,
With all its tuneful chords unstrung,
And silent are the echoing halls,
Where oft the merry laugh has rung.
Where now are all the lips and eyes,
Whose smiles once cheer'd my native bower?
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A New Year's Greeting
TO A CIRCLE OF FRIENDS.
A kindly greeting to you all—
To all an opening year of gladness;
May never sorrow round you fall
More dark than evening's twilight sadness.
The wintry blast may whistle shrill,
And clouds may dim the face of heaven;
But Friendship's wreath shall blossom still,
On this our gladsome New-Year's even.
While lips and hearts are smiling thus,
And hands are fondly clasp'd together,
Oh what are cloudy skies to us,
Or fortune's bright or sunny weather?
We may not meet, to hail again
Another year with hearts of lightness;
Some beating pulse may rest ere then,
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Child's Evening Hymn
Father! while the daylight dies,
Hear our grateful voices rise:
For the blessings that we share,
For thy kindness and thy care,
For the joy that fills our breast;
For the love that makes us blest,
We thank thee, Father.
For an earthly father's arm,
Shielding us from wrong and harm;
For a mother's watchful cares,
Mingled with her many prayers;
For the happy kindred band,
'Midst whose peaceful links we stand,
We bless thee, Father.
Yet while ‘neath the evening skies,
Thus we bid our thanks arise,
Father! still we think of those,
Who are bow'd with many woes,
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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To the Ladies' Free Produce Society
Your gathering day! and I am not,
As erst, amid you set;
But even from this distant spot,
My thoughts are with you yet,
As freshly as in hours forgot,
When I was with you met.
His blessing on your high career!
Go, press unwearied on,
From month to month, from year to year,
Till when your task is done,
The franchised negro's grateful tear
Oh faint you not, ye gathered band!
Although your way be long,
And they who ranged against you stand,
Are numberless and strong;
While you but bear a feeble hand,
Unused to cope with wrong.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Sold
I'll to the dance! what boots it thus,
To brood o'er ills I cannot quell?
Amid the revel shout of mirth,
My bitter laugh shall mingle well.
I've toil'd beside my mates to-day,
To-night we'll join in seeming glee;
But when we part, with morning's light,
For aye, that parting glance will be.
I will not go!—this fire within,
Would choke me with its smother'd flames!
How could I tell the dear ones there,
Of that detested tyrant's claims?
I could endure the fetter's weight,
That I have borne with them so long,—
But not to wear a stranger's chain,
And crouch beneath a stranger's thong.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Indian Mother To Her Son
Thy foot is on thy father's grave,
Thine eye is on thy father's foes,
Here sleeps what once was free and brave!
There, last his war-whoop yell arose!
And where thy sire's last deed was done,
There first thine arm shall wake, my son.
Thou see'st this flower—thy father's heart
Hath nourish'd up its early bloom;
And thou, to me, hast been a part
Of life, and hope, through years of gloom.—
The flowret's stem is rent—and thou
Must tear thee from thy mother now.
Ay, hie thee forth—the red man's yell,
To-night, shall break our foemen's sleep;
And shrieks, and flames, and blood, shall tell,
How Indian hearts their vengeance keep!
How Indian sons in memory nurse
Their dying sires’ revengeful curse.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Grave of The Unfortunate
Light fall the early dews of even, and out upon the air
The cereus flowers fling lavishly the fragrance that they bear;
One star, of all the eyes of heaven, is yet alone awake,
And sends abroad its prying glance to gaze on bower and lake.
Come bid the silent lute breathe out a low and mournful strain,
A sad and tearful melody, a wailing for the slain;
And as the notes glide far away, I'll tell thee how one died,
Who sleeps in quiet loneliness, forgotten, by thy side.
The weary slave had left his toil;—it was an eve like this,
But to his heart its loveliness would bring no throb of bliss;
He only thought of former days, when she who shared his chains
Had roved in freedom by his side, amid their native plains.
A cry of anguish caught his ear—in shrieks she breathed his name,
And forward to his cot he sprung with heart and pulse of flame;
Amid her weeping babes she knelt, and o'er her crouching head
The white man's lash in mockery swung, all newly stain'd with red.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works
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The Slave-Mother's Farewell
May God have mercy on thee, son, for man's stern heart hath none!
My gentle boy, my beautiful, my loved and only one!
I would the bitter tears that steep thy young and grief-doom'd head,
Were springing from a broken heart, that mourn'd thee with the dead.
And yet how often have I watch'd above thine infant sleep,
With love whose gushing tenderness strove vainly not to weep,
When starting through my timid heart, the thought that thou couldst die,
Shot, even amidst a mother's bliss, a pang of agony.
My boy! my boy! Oh cling not thus around me in thy grief,
Thy mother's arm, thy mother's love, can yield thee no relief;
The tiger's bloody jaw hath not a gripe more fierce and fell
Than that which tears thee from my arms—thou who wert loved so well!
How may I live bereft of thee? Thy smile was all that flung
A ray of gladness ‘midst the gloom, forever round me hung:
How may a mother's heart endure to think upon thy fate,
Thou doom'd to misery and chains!—so young and desolate!
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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The Enfranchised Slaves to Their Benefactress
Oh, blessings on thee, lady! we could lie
Down at thy feet, in our deep gratitude,
And give ourselves to die,
So thou could'st be made happier by our blood;
Yet life has never seem'd so dear as now,
That we may lift a free, unbranded brow.
In the deep silence of the starry night,
Our lips shall call down blessings on thy head;
And the first gush of light,
That in its splendour o'er the world is spread,
Shall view us bow'd in prayer, that life may be
A calm and sunny day of joy for thee.
Free! free!—how glorious 't is to lift an eye,
Unblenching beneath infamy and shame,
To the blue boundless sky,
And feel each moment from our hearts, the tame
Dull pulses of our vileness pass away,
Like sluggish mists before the rising day.
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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