<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117571" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Negro Father's Lamentation Over the Body of His Infant Son</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou'rt dead, my boy!—my son!—my only child!—<br>And yet I may not shed one tear for thee,<br>Nor hanging o'er thy bier in anguish wild,<br>Upbraid the hand that bore thee far from me:<br>I cannot wish that thou hadst lived to share<br>Thy father's fate—his woes—and his despair!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I loved thee—oh! I need not say how well!<br>Thou wert my all of hopes or bliss on earth!<br>Yet I will not repine that thou dost dwell<br>In happiness, with her who gave thee birth,<br>While I, like yon dark rock of naked stone,<br>Must bear the storms that round me beat, alone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'T is well! Thou wilt not share those storms with me,<br>That is my all of comfort in this hour—<br>I weep not, though I would have died for thee!<br>Ay, more than died— that sacrifice were poor—<br>I would have spurn'd the hand that set me free,<br>And clasp'd my chain, and lived a slave, for thee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My boy! my darling boy! farewell, farewell!<br>Thou ne'er shalt feel the pangs that rend me now,<br>For still my heart with agony will swell,<br>To think, that never more upon my brow,<br>Thy little lips with fondness shall be prest,<br>As when I oft have clasp'd thee to my breast.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes! fare thee well! thy fond caress no more<br>Shall soothe the tortured throbbing of my heart,<br>As it full oft has done, when tyrant power<br>Has trampled me to earth, and round me prest<br>The chain of slavery, till my swelling heart<br>Has madden'd into frenzy with the smart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet even then, though thou couldst calm my soul,<br>With thy soft lisping voice and childish glee,<br>While clasping thee, sad thoughts would o'er me roll,<br>Of what must be thy future destiny,<br>Till my hot tears have wet thy little face,<br>And thou hast wonder'd at my wild embrace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But thou art dead!—it ne'er will be thy fate<br>To tremble at a cruel tyrant's frowns—<br>To bend in servile toil, to feed his state,<br>To feel the lash, and hear him mock thy groans.<br>Then fare thee well!—thy father will not weep,<br>Or wish to wake thee from thy peaceful sleep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Elizabeth+Margaret+Chandler">Elizabeth Margaret Chandler</a> from <i>Poetical Works</i><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117571" data-title="The Negro Father's Lamentation Over the Body of His Infant Son de Elizabeth Margaret Chandler" data-description="Thou'rt dead, my boy!—my son!—my only child!—/And yet I may not shed one tear for thee,/Nor hanging o'er thy bier in anguish wild,/Upbraid the hand that bore thee far from me:/I cannot wish that thou hadst lived to share/Thy father's fate—..."></div> </div> </div>

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