but four years old
When father was sold away;
Yet I have never seen his face
Since that sad parting day.
He went where brighter flowrets grow
Beneath the Southern skies;
Oh who will show me on the map
Where that far country lies?

I begged him, "father, do not go!
For, since my mother died,
I love no one so well as you;"
And, clinging to his side,
The tears came gushing down my cheeks
Until my eyes were dim;
Some were in sorrow for the dead,
And _some_ in love for him.

He knelt and prayed of God above,
"My little daughter spare,
And let us both here meet again,
O keep her in thy care."
He does not come!--I watch for him
At evening twilight grey,
Till every shadow wears his shape,
Along the grassy way.

I muse and listen all alone,
When stormy winds are high,
And think I hear his tender tone,
And call, but no reply;
And so I've done these four long years,
Without a friend or home,
Yet every dream of hope is vain,--
Why don't my father come?

Father--dear father, are you sick,
Upon a stranger shore?--
The people say it must be so--
O send to me once more,
And let your little daughter come,
To soothe your restless bed,
And hold the cordial to your lips,
And press your aching head.

Alas!--I fear me he is dead!--
Who will my trouble share?
Or tell me where his form is laid,
And let me travel there?
By mother's tomb I love to sit,
Where the green branches wave;
Good people! help a friendless child
To find her father's grave.

The Slave and her Babe.

WORDS BY CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH.

"Can a woman forget her sucking child?"

_Air--"Slave Girl mourning her Father."_

O, massa, let me stay, to catch
My baby's sobbing breath;
His little glassy eye to watch,
And smooth his limbs in death,
And cover him with grass and leaf,
Beneath the plantain tree!
It is not sullenness, but grief--
O, massa, pity me!

God gave me babe--a precious boon,
To cheer my lonely heart,
But massa called to work too soon,
And I must needs depart.
The morn was chill--I spoke no word,
But feared my babe might die,
And heard all day, or thought I heard,
My little baby cry.

At noon--O, how I ran! and took
My baby to my breast!
I lingered--and the long lash broke
My sleeping infant's rest.
I worked till night--till darkest night,
In torture and disgrace;
Went home, and watched till morning light,
To see my baby's face.

The fulnes