by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

    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.

    I could not rest if around my grave

    I heard the steps of a trembling slave；

    His shadow above my silent tomb

    Would make it a place of fearful gloom.

    I could not rest if I heard the tread

    Of a coffle gang to the shambles led，

    And the mother's shriek of wild despair

    Rise like a curse on the trembling air.

    I could not sleep if I saw the lash

    Drinking her blood at each fearful gash，

    And I saw her babes torn from her breast，

    Like trembling doves from their parent nest.

    I'd shudder and start if I heard the bay

    Of bloodhounds seizing their human prey，

    And I heard the captive plead in vain

    As they bound afresh his galling chain.

    If I saw young girls from their mother's arms

    Bartered and sold for their youthful charms，

    My eye would flash with a mournful flame，

    My death-paled cheek grow red with shame.

    I would sleep， dear friends， where bloated might

    Can rob no man of his dearest right；

    My rest shall be calm in any grave

    Where none can call his brother a slave.

    I ask no monument， proud and high，

    To arrest the gaze of the passers-by；

    All that my yearning spirit craves，

    Is bury me not in a land of slaves.