Imagens das páginas
PDF
ePub

"Because

In battle again." "Why, Larry?"
The Goddess of Liberty 's turned to a nigger,

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
Our track on lone Tybee.

At last our grating keels outslide,

Our good boats forward swing;
And while we ride the land-locked tide,
Our negroes row and sing.

For dear the bondman holds his gifts
Of music and of song;
The gold that kindly Nature sifts
Among his sands of wrong;

The power to make his toiling days
And poor home-comforts please;
The quaint relief of mirth that plays
With sorrow's minor keys.

Another glow than sunset's fire

Has filled the West with light,
Where field and garner, barn and byre
Are blazing through the night.

AT PORT ROYAL.

The land is wild with fear and hate,
The rout runs mad and fast;

From hand to hand, from gate to gate,
The flaming brand is passed.

The lurid glow falls strong across
Dark faces broad with smiles:
Not theirs the terror, hate and loss
That fire yon blazing piles.

With oar-strokes timing to their song,
They weave in simple lays
The pathos of remembered wrong,
The hope of better days; -

The triumph-note that Miriam sung,
The joy of uncaged birds :
Softening with Afric's mellow tongue
Their broken Saxon words.

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,
We'll hab de rice an' corn ;

O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!

Ole massa on he trabbles gone ;

He leaf de land behind:

De Lord's breff blow him furder on,
Like corn shuck in de wind.

We own de hoe, we own de plough,
We own de hands dat hold;
We sell de pig, we sell de cow,
But nebber chile be sold.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
We'll hab de rice an' corn;

O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!

We pray de Lord; he gib us signs
Dat some day we be free;

De Norf-wind tell it to de pines,
De wild-duck to de sea;

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,
We'll hab de rice an' corn;

O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn !

We know de promise nebber fail,
An' nebber lie de word;

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,
Flame-lighted, ruder still,

We start to think that hapless race
Must shape our good or ill:

That laws of changeless justice bind
Oppressor with oppressed;

And close as sin and suffering joined,
We march to Fate abreast.

Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall be
Our sign of blight or bloom,

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
In the dreary night and the drizzling rain?
Hist! - ah, it was only the river's moan ;
They have left me behind, with the mangled slain.

Yes, now I remember it all too well!
We met, from the battling ranks apart;
Together our weapons flashed and fell,
And mine was sheathed in his quivering heart.

In the cypress gloom, where the deed was done,
It was all too dark to see his face;
But I heard his death-groans, one by one,
And he holds me still in a cold embrace.

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,
When we lisped the words of our evening prayer!
My brother! would I had died for thee,

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 for awhile I forgot my pain,
And over the lakelet we seemed to glide
In our little boat, two boys again.

And then, in my dream, we stood alone
On a forest path where the shadows fell;
And I heard again the tremulous tone,
And the tender words of his last farewell.

But that parting was years, long years ago,
He wandered away to a foreign land;

« AnteriorContinuar »