by George Moses Horton

    When on life's ocean first I spread my sail，

    I then implored¹ a mild auspicious² gale³；

    And from the slippery strand⁴ I took my flight，

    And sought the peaceful haven⁵ of delight.

    Tyrannic storms arose upon my soul，

    And dreadful did their mad'ning thunders roll；

    The pensive⁶ muse⁷ was shaken from her sphere，

    And hope， it vanished in the clouds of fear.

    At length a golden sun broke through the gloom，

    And from his smiles arose a sweet perfume

    A calm ensued， and birds began to sing，

    And lo！ the sacred muse resumed her wing.

    With frantic⁸ joy she chaunted as she flew，

    And kiss'd the clement⁹ hand that bore her through；

    Her envious¹⁰ foes¹¹ did from her sight retreat，

    Or prostrate¹² fall beneath her burning feet.

    'Twas like a proselyte， allied¹³ to Heaven

    Or rising spirits' boast of sins forgiven，

    Whose shout dissolves the adamant¹⁴ away，

    Whose melting voice the stubborn rocks obey.

    'Twas like the salutation of the dove，

    Borne on the zephyr¹⁵ through some lonesome grove¹⁶，

    When Spring returns， and Winter's chill is past，

    And vegetation smiles above the blast.

    'Twas like the evening of a nuptial¹⁷ pair，

    When love pervades¹⁸ the hour of sad despair

    'Twas like fair Helen's sweet return to Troy，

    When every Grecian bosom¹⁹ swell'd with joy.

    The silent harp²⁰ which on the osiers hung，

    Was then attuned²¹， and manumission sung；

    Away by hope the clouds of fear were driven，

    And music breathed my gratitude²² to Heaven.

    Hard was the race to reach the distant goal，

    The needle oft was shaken from the pole；

    In such distress²³ who could forbear to weep？

    Toss'd by the headlong billows of the deep！

    The tantalizing²⁴ beams which shone so plain，

    Which turned my former pleasures into pain

    Which falsely promised all the joys of fame，

    Gave way， and to a more substantial flame.

    Some philanthropic souls as from afar，

    With pity strove to break the slavish bar；

    To whom my floods of gratitude shall roll，

    And yield with pleasure to their soft control.

    And sure of Providence²⁵ this work begun

    He shod my feet this rugged²⁶ race to run；

    And in despite of all the swelling²⁷ tide，

    Along the dismal²⁸ path will prove my guide.

    Thus on the dusky verge of deep despair，

    Eternal Providence was with me there；

    When pleasure seemed to fade on life's gay dawn，

    And the last beam of hope was almost gone

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