The Fugitive’s Wife

It was my sad and weary lot
  To toil in slavery;
But one thing cheered my lowly cot⁠—
  My husband was with me.

One evening, as our children played
  Around our cabin door,
I noticed on his brow a shade
  I’d never seen before;

And in his eyes a gloomy night
  Of anguish and despair;⁠—
I gazed upon their troubled light,
  To read the meaning there.

He strained me to his heaving heart⁠—
  My own beat wild with fear;
I knew not, but I sadly felt
  There must be evil near.

He vainly strove to cast aside
  The tears that fell like rain:⁠—
Too frail, indeed, is manly pride,
  To strive with grief and pain.

Again he clasped me to his breast,
  And said that we must part:
I tried to speak⁠—but, oh! it seemed
  An arrow reached my heart.

“Bear not!” I cried, “unto your grave,
  The yoke you’ve borne from birth;
No longer live a helpless slave,
  The meanest thing on earth!”