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The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Narrative of Lunsford Lane, Formerly of Raleigh, N.C., by Lunsford Lane This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: The Narrative of Lunsford Lane, Formerly of Raleigh, N.C. Author: Lunsford Lane Release Date: February 21, 2005 [eBook #15118] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NARRATIVE OF LUNSFORD LANE, FORMERLY OF RALEIGH, N.C.*** E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Melissa Er-Raqabi, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) Transcriber's Note: This work was transcribed from a contemporary printing, not from the 1842 edition. Certain spellings may have been modernized and typographic and printer's errors changed from the original. THE NARRATIVE OF LUNSFORD LANE, FORMERLY OF RALEIGH, N.C. Embracing an account of his early life, the redemption by purchase of himself and family from slavery, And his banishment from the place of his birth for the crime of wearing a colored skin. Published By Himself. Boston: Printed for the Publisher: J. G. Torrey, Printer. 1842 NARRATIVE OF LUNSFORD LANE. [ORIGINAL.] The Slave Mother's Address TO HER INFANT CHILD. I cannot tell how much I love To look on thee, my child; Nor how that looking rocks my soul As on a tempest wild; For I have borne thee to the world, And bid thee breathe its air, But soon to see around thee drawn The curtains of despair. Now thou art happy, child, I know, As little babe can be; Thou dost not fancy in thy dreams But thou art all as free As birds upon the mountain winds, (If thou hast thought of bird,) Or anything thou thinkest of, Or thy young ear has heard. What are thy little thoughts about? I cannot certain know, Only there's not a wing of them Upon a breath of woe, For not a shadow's on thy face, Nor billow heaves thy breast,-- All clear as any summer's lake With not a zephyr press'd. TO THE RE
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