The Death Of A Slave Poem by Thomas Hill

In a low and ill-thatched hut,
Stretched on a floor of clay,
With scanty clothing round her wrapped,
The dying woman lay.

No husband’s kindly hand,
No loving child was near,
To offer her their aid, or shed
A sympathizing tear.

For now the ripened cane
Was read for the knife,
And not a slave could be spared to aid
His mother or his wife.

She is struggling now with Death,—
Deep was that dying groan,
For a corpse now lies on the cold clay floor,
The soul, set free, has flown.

The planter, walking by,
Chanced at the door to stop,
And he cursed his luck, 'there was one hand less
To gather in the crop.'

O, Jesus! hast thou said:
'The poor your care shall be,
Who visit not the poor and sick,
They do it not to me'?