Francis Harper was born of free parents in Maryland, then a slave state, on September 24, 1825. Before her death on February 22, 1911, she had developed careers as a teacher, abolitionist, suffragist, public speaker and author. Harper began to publish articles in anti-slavery journals in 1839 under her maiden name Francis Watkins. She did not marry Fenton Harper until 1860.
She was one of the earliest African-American women to develop an extensive writing career. In addition to her works on abolition and suffrage, she published poetry and several novels. Her first book of poems appeared in 1845. She joined the American Anti-Slavery Society in 1853 and lectured widely on their behalf. Harper was also active in various suffrage and prohibitionist organizations. In 1872 she published Sketches of Southern Life, a chronicle of her travels in the region to meet newly freed slaves.
In 1895 her collection Poems appeared and included the one below, "The Martyr of Alabama". Harper was inspired by a newspaper account of a real event at Bay Minnette in Baldwin County, Alabama, on December 29, 1894. The beating and shooting of the young Tim Thompson had been covered in several newspapers around the country; you can see some examples here.
Whether any Alabama newspapers wrote about the event or whether the murderer was ever caught will require further research.
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In the same newspaper column as the Thompson piece, a few items below, is this article--another sign of the times.
Frances E.W. Harper [1825-1911]
Source: Wikipedia
Below is Harper's poem as it appeared in the 1895 edition of her Poems. The numbers are the page numbers from that publication.
THE MARTYR OF ALABAMA.
"Tim Thompson, a little negro boy, was asked to dance for the amusement of some white toughs. He refused, saying he was a church member. One of the men knocked him down with a club and then danced upon his prostrate form. He then shot the boy in the hip. The boy is dead; his murderer is still at large."—News Item.
He lifted up his pleading eyes,
And scanned each cruel face,
Where cold and brutal cowardice
Had left its evil trace.
It was when tender memories
Round Beth'lem's manger lay,
(49)
50 THE MARTYR OF ALABAMA.
And mothers told their little ones
Of Jesu's natal day.
And of the Magi from the East
Who came their gifts to bring,
And bow in rev'rence at the feet
Of Salem's new-born King.
And how the herald angels sang
The choral song of peace,
That war should close his wrathful lips,
And strife and carnage cease.
At such an hour men well may hush
Their discord and their strife,
And o'er that manger clasp their hands
With gifts to brighten life.
Alas! that in our favored land,
That cruelty and crime
Should cast their shadows o'er a day.
The fairest pearl of time.
A dark-browed boy had drawn anear
A band of savage men,
Just as a hapless lamb might stray
Into a tiger's den.
THE MARTYR OF ALABAMA. 51
Cruel and dull, they saw in him
For sport an evil chance,
And then demanded of the child
To give to them a dance.
"Come dance for us," the rough men said;
"I can't," the child replied,
"I cannot for the dear Lord's sake,
Who for my sins once died."
Tho' they were strong and he was weak,
He wouldn't his Lord deny.
His life lay in their cruel hands,
But he for Christ could die.
Heard they aright? Did that brave child
Their mandates dare resist?
Did he against their stern commands
Have courage to insist?
Then recklessly a man (?) arose,
And dealt a fearful blow.
He crushed the portals of that life,
And laid the brave child low.
And trampled on his prostrate form,
As on a broken toy;
52 THE MARTYR OF ALABAMA.
Then danced with careless, brutal feet,
Upon the murdered boy.
Christians! behold that martyred child!
His blood cries from the ground;
Before the sleepless eye of God,
He shows each gaping wound.
Oh! Church of Christ arise! arise!
Lest crimson stain thy hand,
When God shall inquisition make
For blood shed in the land.
Take sackcloth of the darkest hue,
And shroud the pulpits round;
Servants of him who cannot lie
Sit mourning on the ground.
Let holy horror blanch each brow,
Pale every cheek with fears,
And rocks and stones, if ye could speak,
Ye well might melt to tears.
Through every fane send forth a cry,
Of sorrow and regret,
Nor in an hour of careless ease
Thy brother's wrongs forget.
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