Why stands she near the auction stand,
That girl so young and fair;
What brings her to this dismal place,
Why stands she weeping there?
Why does she raise that bitter cry?
Why hangs her head with shame,
As now the auctioneer's rough voice,
So rudely calls her name?
But see! she grasps a manly hand,
And in a voice so low,
As scarcely to be heard, she says,
'My brother, must I go?'
A moment's pause: then midst a wail
Of agonizing woe,
His answer falls upon the ear,
'Yes, sister, you must go!'
'No longer can my arm defend,
No longer can I save
My sister from the horrid fate
That waits her as a SLAVE!'
Ah! now I know why she is there,
She came there to be sold!
That lovely form, that noble mind,
Must be exchanged for gold!
O God! my every heart-string cries,
Dost thou these scenes behold
In this our boasted Christian land,
And must the truth be told?
Blush, Christian, blush! for e'en the dark
Untutored heathen see
Thy inconsistency, and lo!
They scorn thy God, and thee!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.