FRANCES ELLEN WATKINS HARPER

I saw a passenger per the Underground Railroad yesterday; did he arrive safely? Notwithstanding that abomination of the nineteenth century — the Fugitive Slave Law — men still determine to be free. Notwithstanding all the darkness in which they keep the slaves, it seems that somehow light is dawning upon their minds

I ask no monument, proud and high, To arrest the gaze of passers-by; All that my yearning spirit craves, Is bury me not in a land of slaves.

In the name of the young girl sold from the warm clasp of a mother's arms to the clutches of a libertine or profligate,—in the name of the slave mother, her heart rocked to and fro by the agony of her mournful separations,—I thank you, that you have been brave enough to reach out your hands to the crushed and blighted of my race

Out of the race must come its own thinkers and writers. Authors belonging to the white race have written good books, for which I am deeply grateful, but it seems to be almost impossible for a white man to put himself completely in our place. No man can feel the iron which enters another man's soul.

Yes, Ethiopia yet shall stretch Her bleeding hands abroad; Her crying agony has reached The burning throne of God. Redeemed from dust and free from chains Her sons shall lift their eyes; From cloud capped hills and verdant plains Shall shouts of triumph rise

I saw a passenger per the Underground Railroad yesterday; did he arrive safely? Notwithstanding that abomination of the nineteenth century — the Fugitive Slave Law — men still determine to be free. Notwithstanding all the darkness in which they keep the slaves, it seems that somehow light is dawning upon their minds

Yes, Ethiopia yet shall stretch Her bleeding hands abroad; Her crying agony has reached The burning throne of God. Redeemed from dust and free from chains Her sons shall lift their eyes; From cloud capped hills and verdant plains Shall shouts of triumph rise

I ask no monument, proud and high, To arrest the gaze of passers-by; All that my yearning spirit craves, Is bury me not in a land of slaves.

In the name of the young girl sold from the warm clasp of a mother's arms to the clutches of a libertine or profligate,—in the name of the slave mother, her heart rocked to and fro by the agony of her mournful separations,—I thank you, that you have been brave enough to reach out your hands to the crushed and blighted of my race

Out of the race must come its own thinkers and writers. Authors belonging to the white race have written good books, for which I am deeply grateful, but it seems to be almost impossible for a white man to put himself completely in our place. No man can feel the iron which enters another man's soul.