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 auctioneerâ€™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,
â€˜My brother, must I go?â€™
A momentâ€™s pause: then midst a wail
Of agonizing woe,
His answer falls upon the ear,
â€˜Yes, sister, you must go!
â€˜No longer can my arm defend,
â€˜No longer can I save
â€˜My sister from the horrid fate
â€˜That waits her as a SLAVE!â€™
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 ones,
Dost thou these scenes behold
In this our boasted Christian land,
And must the truth be told?
Blush, Christian, blush for eâ€™en the dark
Untutored heathen see
Thy inconsistency, and lo!
They scorn thy God, and thee!