|ELIZA IN UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.|
Haste thee, mother, pluck thy flower,
From the bed thou lov'st so well;
Plant it in a soil congenial,--
Quick! Or they'll thy flower sell.
How that mother tore her tresses,
When she learned they sold her bud;
Neither sigh nor tear escaped her,
Only her poor heart dropt blood.
"I will save thee, I'll rescue thee!"
Cried the mother with new life,
"Though my life's blood perish for it,
You'll be free from all this strife."
Close she wrapped her life, her treasure,
Quick she steals out in the night,
All things dear she bids farewell to,
Then she disappears from sight.