No hand is so gentle, no voice is so kind,
Oh! none like a mother can cherish the blind!
Poor blind one! No mother thy wailing can hear,
No mother can hasten to banish thy fear;
For the slave-owner drives her o'er mountain and wild,
And for one paltry dollar hath sold thee, poor child;
Ah, who can in language of mortals reveal
The anguish that none but a mother can feel.
When man in his vile lust of mammon hath trod