Her memory was full of song
That she had learned in house and field,
From those whose days seemed never long,
And those who could not hold concealed
The consciousness of shame and wrong.
A loving ear heard their complaints;
A faithful tongue advised and warned;
And grave corrections and restraints
Were rendered by a heart adorned
By all the graces of the saints.
There was no touch of memory's chords--
No picture on her blooming wall,--
Of life upon the sunny swards
They reproduced,--but brought recall
Of happy slaves and gentle lords.
And Philip charged a deadly sin
Upon that beautiful domain,
Condemning all who dwelt therein,
And branding with the awful stain
Her friends, and all her dearest kin.
XII.
Yet still she knew his conscience clear,--
That he believed his voice was God's;
And listened with a voiceless fear
To the portentous periods
In which he preached the chosen year
Of expiation and release,
And prophesied that Slavery's power,
Grown great apace with crime's increase,
Before the front of Right should cower,
And bid God's people go in peace!
The fierce invectives of his tongue
Frayed every day her wounds afresh,
And with new pain her bosom wrung,
For they envenomed kindred flesh,
To which in sympathy she clung.
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