The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Anti-Slavery Alphabet
Title: The Anti-Slavery Alphabet
Author: Hannah Townsend
Mary Townsend
Release date: June 17, 2005 [eBook #16081]
Most recently updated: December 11, 2020
Language: English
Original publication: Philadelphia: Printed For The Anti-slavery Fair. . Merrihew & Thompson, Printers, 7 Carter's Alley, 1847
Credits: Produced by Jason Isbell and the Online Distributed
Proofreaders Team at https://www.pgdp.net, with special
thanks to K.D. Thornton for cleaning up the illustrations.
THE ANTI-SLAVERY ALPHABET.
"In the morning sow thy seed."
PHILADELPHIA:
PRINTED FOR THE ANTI-SLAVERY FAIR.
1847.
Merrihew & Thompson, Printers, 7 Carter's alley.
TO OUR LITTLE READERS.
Listen to our earnest call:
You are very young, 'tis true,
But there's much that you can do.
Even you can plead with men
That they buy not slaves again,
And that those they have may be
Quickly set at liberty.
They may hearken what you say,
Though from us they turn away.
Sometimes, when from school you walk,
You can with your playmates talk,
Tell them of the slave child's fate,
Motherless and desolate.
And you can refuse to take
Candy, sweetmeat, pie or cake,
Saying "no"—unless 'tis free—
"The slave shall not work for me."
Thus, dear little children, each
May some useful lesson teach;
Thus each one may help to free
This fair land from slavery.
A man who wants to free
The wretched slave—and give to all
An equal liberty.
Of somewhat darker hue,
But in our Heavenly Father's sight,
He is as dear as you.
This injured brother's driven,
When, as the white-man's slave, he toils,
From early morn till even.
Who follows, whip in hand,
To punish those who dare to rest,
Or disobey command.
An emblem of the free;
But while we chain our brother man,
Our type he cannot be.
The slave who runs away,
And travels through the dreary night,
But hides himself by day.
Before the morning light,
Calls up the little sleeping slave,
To labor until night.
And called to scent the track
Of the unhappy Fugitive,
And bring him trembling back.
Of its fond mother torn,
And, at a public auction, sold
With horses, cows, and corn.
That wretched mother lay,
Until her cruel master came,
And carried her away.
That little child and mother—
Shrieking, it clung around her, but
He tore them from each other.
He swung around its head,
Threatening that "if it cried again,
He'd whip it till 'twas dead."
Who buys what slaves produce—
So they are stolen, whipped and worked,
For his, and for our use.
In his far distant home,
Delighting 'neath the palm trees' shade
And cocoa-nut to roam.
Beside his cabin door,
When white men stole him from his home
To see it never more.
And weeping all alone—
The child he loved to lean upon,
His only son, is gone!
On coarsest food is fed,
And where, with toil and sorrow worn,
He seeks his wretched bed.
Where, weary, day by day,
He labors till the fever wastes
His strength and life away.
Is toiling hard to make,
To put into your pie and tea,
Your candy, and your cake.
Raised by slave labor too:
A poisonous and nasty thing,
For gentlemen to chew.
Where the poor slave has found
Rest after all his wanderings,
For it is British ground!
Noisome, and stifling hold,
Hundreds of Africans are packed,
Brought o'er the seas, and sold.
To which the slave is bound,
While on his naked back, the lash
Makes many a bleeding wound.
A warrior stern was he
He fought with swords; let truth and love
Our only weapons be.
Bravely to war with sin;
And think not it can ever be
Too early to begin.
Faithful, and just, and true;
An earnest pleader for the slave—
Will you not be so too?