The winter wind blew cold, and the snow was falling fast,

But within the cheerful parlor none listened to the blast;

The fire was blazing brightly, and soft lamps their radiance shed

On rare and costly pictures, and many a fair young head.

The father in the easy chair, to his youngest nestling dove,

Whispered a wondrous fairy tale, such as all children love;

Brothers and sisters gathered round, and the eye might clearly trace

A happiness too deep for words, on the mother’s lovely face.

A smile beamed on the mother’s face, as the little prattler spoke,

And kissing her soft, rosy cheek, she thus the silence broke,

“I will tell you, my own darlings, a story that is true,

Of a little Southern maiden, with a skin of sable hue.

“Xariffe, her mother called her, a child of beauty rare,

With soft gazelle-like eyes, and curls of dark and shining hair,

A fairy form of perfect grace, and such artless winning ways

That none who saw her, e’er could fail her loveliness to praise.

“She sported mid the orange-groves in gleeful, careless play,

And her mother, as she gazed on her, in agony would pray,

“God heard her prayer, but often He in wisdom doth withhold

The boon we crave, that we may be pure and refined like gold;

And the mother saw Xariffe grow in loveliness and grace,

Till the roses of five summers blushed in beauty on her face.

“At length, one day, one sunny day, when earth and heaven were bright,

The mother to her daily toil went forth at morning light;

At evening, when her task was done,—how can the tale be told?

She came back to her empty hut, to find her darling sold.

“Come nearer, my own precious ones, your soft white arms entwine

Around my neck, and kiss me close, sweet Ella, daughter mine;

Five years in beauty thou hast bloomed, of my happy life a part,

Oh, God! I guess the anguish of that lone slave-mother’s heart.