"Because In battle again." "Why, Larry?" An' ould Father Abram 's forgotten the laws!" HERMITAGE, January 8, 1863. Louisville Sunday Democrat AT PORT ROYAL. BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. THE tent-lights glimmer on the land, The ship-lights on the sea; The night-wind smooths with drifting sand At last our grating keels outslide, Our good boats forward swing; For dear the bondman holds his gifts The power to make his toiling days Another glow than sunset's fire Has filled the West with light, AT PORT ROYAL. The land is wild with fear and hate, From hand to hand, from gate to gate, The lurid glow falls strong across With oar-strokes timing to their song, The triumph-note that Miriam sung, 147 SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN. O, PRAISE an' tanks! De Lord he come To set de people free; An' massa tink de day ob doom, An' we ob jubilee. De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves He jus' as 'trong as den; He say de word: we las' night slaves, To-day de Lord's freemen. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear Ole massa on he trabbles gone ; He leaf de land behind: De Lord's breff blow him furder on, We own de hoe, we own de plough, De yam will grow, de cotton blow, O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear We pray de Lord; he gib us signs De Norf-wind tell it to de pines, We tink it when de church-bell ring, We dream it in de dream; De rice-bird mean it when he sing, De eagle when he scream. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear We know de promise nebber fail, So, like de 'postles in de jail, We waited for de Lord; An' now he open ebery door, An' trow away de key; He tink we lub him so before, We lub him better free. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, He 'll gib de rice an' corn; O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn! LEFT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. So sing our dusky gondoliers; And with a secret pain, And smiles that seem akin to tears, We hear the wild refrain. We dare not share the negro's trust, Nor yet his hope deny; We only know that God is just, And every wrong shall die. Rude seems the song; each swarthy face, We start to think that hapless race That laws of changeless justice bind And close as sin and suffering joined, Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall be The Vala-song of Liberty, Or death-rune of our doom! 149 LEFT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. BY SARAH T. BOLTON. WHAT, was it a dream? am I all alone Yes, now I remember it all too well! In the cypress gloom, where the deed was done, He spoke but once, and I could not hear The words he said, for the cannon's roar; But my heart grew cold with a deadly fear, — O God! I had heard that voice before! Had heard it before at our mother's knee, This burden is more than my soul can bear ! I pressed my lips to his death-cold cheek, And begged him to show me, by word or sign, That he knew and forgave me: he could not speak, But he nestled his poor cold face to mine. The blood flowed fast from my wounded side, And then, in my dream, we stood alone But that parting was years, long years ago, |