"Make me a grave where'er you will,
In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill,
Make it among earth's humblest graves,
But not in a land where men are slaves."

In the State of Maine the papers brought to her notice the capture of
Margaret Garner, and the tragic and bloody deed connected therewith. And
she writes:

"Rome had her altars where the trembling criminal, and the worn
and weary slave might fly for an asylum--Judea her cities of
refuge; but Ohio, with her Bibles and churches, her baptisms and
prayers, had not one temple so dedicated to human rights, one
altar so consecrated to human liberty, that trampled upon and
down-trodden innocence knew that it could find protection for a
night, or shelter for a day."

In the fall of 1860, in the city of Cincinnati, Mrs. Harper was married
to Fenton Harper, a widower, and resident of Ohio. It seemed obvious
that this change would necessarily take her from the sphere of her
former usefulness. The means she had saved from the sale of her books
and from her lectures, she invested in a small farm near Columbus, and
in a short time after her marriage she entered upon house-keeping.

Notwithstanding her family cares, consequent upon married life, she only
ceased from her literary and anti-slavery labors, when compelled to do
so by other duties.

On the 23d of May, 1864, death deprived her of her husband.

Whilst she could not give so much attention to writing as she could have
desired in her household days, she, nevertheless, did then produce some
of her best productions. Take the following for a sample, on the return
from Cleveland, Ohio, of a poor, ill-fated slave-girl, (under the
Fugitive Slave Law):

TO THE UNION SAVERS OF CLEVELAND.

Men of Cleveland, had a vulture
Sought a timid dove for prey,
Would you not, with human pity,
Drive the gory bird away?

Had you seen a feeble lambkin,
Shrinking from a wolf so bold,
Would ye not to shield the trembler,
In your arms have made its fold?

But when she, a hunted sister,
Stretched her hands that ye might save,
Colder far than Zembla's regions
Was the answer that ye gave.

On the Union's bloody altar,
Was your hapless victim laid;
Mercy, truth and justice shuddered,
But your hands would give no aid.

And ye sent her back to torture,
Robbed of freedom and of right.
Thrust the wretched, captive stranger.