A mother came passing by my door,
Her son was near by my side;
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This star spangled banner country,
Is styled as the "Land of Free;"
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Would that I were an artist
And while I stand in time
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A little child with her aunty came
Into a certain store,
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(To the memory of Alma, a little niece, born September 12th, 1888, died May 30th, 1891. An angel.)
'Twas in the bleak September,
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A question I would like to ask,
To answer it may be a task.
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Across the nation's broad domain,
On every hill, and every plain,
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Spotless, spotless, spotless, spotless,
At the sounding of that word,
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The summer's sun was beaming hot,
The boys had played all day;
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Only Afric's jungles
Satisfied his mind,
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I never see the burial place,
Where my dear mother lies;
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The last time mother walked with me,
October skies were blue;
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Friends can't you tell me something?
I am weary and worn tonight.
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My life is a wearisome journey;
I'm sick with the times and the heat,
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Dear friend, to me one vision craved,
Alas! has been denied;
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"To thine ownself be true,
And it must follow as the night the day,
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To Mrs. Annie Julia Cooper.
I read that book, "Voice from the South,"
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He has gone forth in the light of light,
Out of the long watch and the heavy night,
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So crushed by sinful oppression,
Through the ages long and drear,
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O life why so imperfect?
And life cried in elation,
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I went to bed the other night,
My sleep was sweet in part;
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The angel who unfetter'd St. Peter,
When bound in Jerusalem's jail;
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You know 'twas eighteen sixty-one,
The civil war had just begun,
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Hurrah for McKinley!
Hurrah for Hobart!
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A voice whispered to an infant,
Sitting on its mother's knees,
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That grand and noble woman dear,
Called Harriet Beecher Stowe,
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She has builded a human monument
The walls of which will stand,
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Here in sweet Nature's lonely gale,
The leaves are gone;
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While Washington at Valley Forge,
Endured the winter's pest;
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Sir George Williams, noble man,
Half 'cent'ry 've passed away,
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