So Much History

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Known as the “Bronze Muse,” Frances Ellen Watkins Harper was a prolific writer in every genre, using her gifts for social protest. She was born on September 24th 1825 in Baltimore, Maryland to free Black parents. Orphaned at the age of three, Watkins went to live with her aunt and uncle, Harriet and William Watkins. Harper attended the William Watkins Academy for Negro Youth, which was run by her uncle. Her uncle juggled several occupations in order to support the family, including preaching, shoemaking, and medicine.

Harper grew up in an environment that displayed an intimate geographic proximity to slavery, since Maryland was a slave state. She had already attained a high-quality education when she left school at age 14. Like other young women, Frances learned the female “trades” of sewing and domestic work in addition to learning academic subjects at her uncle’s school. Despite her schooling, she could only find domestic work, and was employed by a Quaker family who ran a bookstore.

After she left school in 1839, Harper's first poems were published in abolitionist periodicals, such as Frederick Douglass' Paper. Exposed to a wide array of literature, Harper continued to write poetry as she had in her youth, and in 1845, she published her first collection of poems, "Forest Leaves". In 1850, Harper left Baltimore and moved to Ohio, where she taught at Union Seminary in Wilberforce, Ohio. Her acceptance of the position was met with considerable protest. After a brief tenure teaching in Pennsylvania, she became a traveling abolitionist speaker and worked to help enslaved people escape the South via the Underground Railroad.

This experience had a profound effect on Harper, her poetry and her later work as an activist. In 1854, Harper was exiled from Maryland because of new slavery laws stating that Black people who came in through the northern border of Maryland could be sold into slavery. This marked the beginning of Harper's activism. In August 1854 in New Bedford, Massachusetts, Watkins delivered a public address on “Education and the Elevation of the Colored Race.” She continued giving anti-slavery speeches throughout the northern United States and Canada.

Her success there led to a two-year lecture tour in Maine for the state Anti-Slavery Society. Her speeches included her prose and poetry, in which she combined the issues of racism, feminism and classism. She combined her talents as a writer, poet, and public speaker with a deep commitment to abolition and social reform. She captivated Black and White audiences alike with dramatic recitations of her her poetry, speeches, and essays on abolitionism, temperance, and woman suffrage.

Her early associations with influential abolitionists William Lloyd Garrison and William Still helped in the publication and circulation of her work. In addition to her rigorous lecturing schedule, Harper was also working on a second book of poems, "Poems on Miscellaneous Subjects," published in 1854, , which was quite successful and was several times enlarged and reissued. While traveling and lecturing, several thousand copies of her books were sold, and Harper donated a large portion of the proceeds to the Underground Railroad.

The sale began—young girls were there,   
   Defenseless in their wretchedness,
Whose stifled sobs of deep despair   
   Revealed their anguish and distress.
 
And mothers stood, with streaming eyes,
   And saw their dearest children sold;
Unheeded rose their bitter cries,
   While tyrants bartered them for gold.
 
And woman, with her love and truth—
   For these in sable forms may dwell—
Gazed on the husband of her youth,
   With anguish none may paint or tell.
 
And men, whose sole crime was their hue,
   The impress of their Maker’s hand,
And frail and shrinking children too,
   Were gathered in that mournful band.
 
Ye who have laid your loved to rest,
   And wept above their lifeless clay,
Know not the anguish of that breast,
   Whose loved are rudely torn away.
 
Ye may not know how desolate
   Are bosoms rudely forced to part,
And how a dull and heavy weight
   Will press the life-drops from the heart.
 
-By Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
Take sackcloth of the darkest dye,
And shroud the pulpits round!
Servants of Him that cannot lie,
Sit mourning on the ground.
 
Let holy horror blanch each cheek,
Pale every brow with fears;
And rocks and stones, if ye could speak,
Ye well might melt to tears!
 
Let sorrow breathe in every tone,
In every strain ye raise;
Insult not God’s majestic throne
With th’ mockery of praise.
 
A “reverend” man, whose light should be
The guide of age and youth,
Brings to the shrine of Slavery
The sacrifice of truth!
 
For the direst wrong by man imposed,
Since Sodom’s fearful cry,
The word of life has been unclos’d,
To give your God the lie.
 
Oh! When ye pray for heathen lands,
And plead for their dark shores,
Remember Slavery’s cruel hands
Make heathens at your doors!
 
-By Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
Make me a grave where’er you will,
In a lowly plain, or a lofty hill; 
Make it among earth’s humblest graves,
But not in a land where men are slaves.
 
I could not rest if around my grave
I heard the steps of a trembling slave;
His shadow above my silent tomb
Would make it a place of fearful gloom.
 
I could not rest if I heard the tread
Of a coffle gang to the shambles led,
And the mother’s shriek of wild despair
Rise like a curse on the trembling air.
 
I could not sleep if I saw the lash
Drinking her blood at each fearful gash,
And I saw her babes torn from her breast,
Like trembling doves from their parent nest.
 
I’d shudder and start if I heard the bay
Of bloodhounds seizing their human prey,
And I heard the captive plead in vain
As they bound afresh his galling chain.
 
If I saw young girls from their mother’s arms
Bartered and sold for their youthful charms,
My eye would flash with a mournful flame,
My death-paled cheek grow red with shame.
 
I would sleep, dear friends, where bloated might
Can rob no man of his dearest right;
My rest shall be calm in any grave
Where none can call his brother a slave.
 
I ask no monument, proud and high,
To arrest the gaze of the passers-by;
All that my yearning spirit craves,
Is bury me not in a land of slaves.
 
-By Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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