Heu sentit el crit? Esquinçà
violent l'aire,
semblà com si un cor oprimit
es trencara de desesperació.

Heu vist les mans tan tristes agafades,
el cap pesarós abaixat,
la tremolor del fràgil cos,
la mirada d'aflicció i por?

Heu vist els ulls tristos i suplicants?
Tot sofriment l'esguard,
com si una tempesta d'angúnia
recorrera el cervell.

Mare, pàl.lida de por,
el fillet al costat,
amb les faldes inútilment tractant
el cos tremolós d'amagar.

Ell no és seu, si bé suportà
per ell els dolors del naixement!
Ell no és seu, si bé la seua sang
corre per les venes!

Ell no és seu, perquè mans cruels
poden sense mirament trencar
l'única garlanda d'amor familiar
que li lliga el destrossat cor.

El seu amor ha estat llum alegre
que li ha somrigut en el camí,
font sempre rajant,
en l'inhòspit desert de la vida.

La seua paraula més lleu ha estat to
musical per al seu cor,
les seues vides un sol rierol.
Oh, Pare Nostre! Han de separar-se?

Li l'arranquen dels braços que l'envolten,
per darrera i amorosa vegada.
Oh! Mai més els seus ulls tristos
miraran el rostre llastimós.

No estranya, doncs, que aquests amargs crits
pertorben l'aire atent:
mare és i el seu cor
de dolor es trenca.

--

THE SLAVE MOTHER

Heard you that shriek? It rose
So wildly on the air,
It seemed as if a burden'd heart
Was breaking in despair.

Saw you those hands so sadly clasped-
The bowed and feeble head-
The suddering of that fragile form-
That look of grief and dread?

Saw you the sad, imploring eye?
Its every glance was pain,
As if a storm of agony
Were sweeeping through the brain.

She is a mother, pale with fear,
Her boy clings to her side
And in her kirtle vainly tries
His trembling form to hide.

He is not hers, although she bore
For him a mother's pains;
He is not hers, although her blood
Is coursing through his veins!

He is not hers, for cruel hands
May rudely tear apart
The only wreath of household love
That binds her breaking heart.

His love has been a joyous light
That o'er her pathway smiled,
A fountain gushing ever new,
Amid life's desert wild.

His lightest word has been a tone
Of music round her heart,
Their lives a streamlet blent in one-
Oh, Father! must they part?

They tear him from her circling arms,
Her last and fond embrace,
Oh! never more may her sad eyes
Gaze on his mournful face.

No marvel, then, these bitter shrieks
Disturb the listening air:
She is a mother, and her heart
Is breaking in despair.
.