Explore "The Grave of the Slave" by Sarah Louisa Forten Purvis on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The cold storms of winter shall chill him no more, / His woes and his sorrows, his pains are all o'er; / The sod of the valley now covers his form, / He is safe in his last home, he feels not the storm.
The poor slave is laid all unheeded and lone, / Where the rich and the poor find a permanent home; / Not his master can rouse him with voice of command; / He knows not, he hears not, his cruel demand.
Not a tear, not a sigh to embalm his cold tomb, / No friend to lament him, no child to bemoan; / Not a stone marks the place, where he peacefully lies, / The earth for his pillow, his curtain the skies.
Poor slave! shall we sorrow that death was thy friend, / The last, and the kindest, that heaven could send?
The grave to the weary is welcomed and blest; / And death, to the captive, is freedom and rest.