Anti-Slavery Poems and Songs of Labor and Reform Part 28

KNOW'ST thou, O slave-cursed land How, when the Chian's cup of guilt Was full to overflow, there came G.o.d's justice in the sword of flame That, red with slaughter to its hilt, Blazed in the Cappadocian victor's hand?

The heavens are still and far; But, not unheard of awful Jove, The sighing of the island slave Was answered, when the AEgean wave The keels of Mithridates clove, And the vines shrivelled in the breath of war.

"Robbers of Chios! hark,"

The victor cried, "to Heaven's decree!

Pluck your last cl.u.s.ter from the vine, Drain your last cup of Chian wine; Slaves of your slaves, your doom shall be, In Colchian mines by Phasis rolling dark."

Then rose the long lament From the h.o.a.r sea-G.o.d's dusky caves The priestess rent her hair and cried, "Woe! woe! The G.o.ds are sleepless-eyed!"

And, chained and scourged, the slaves of slaves, The lords of Chios into exile went.

"The G.o.ds at last pay well,"

So h.e.l.las sang her taunting song, "The fisher in his net is caught, The Chian hath his master bought;"

And isle from isle, with laughter long, Took up and sped the mocking parable.

Once more the slow, dumb years Bring their avenging cycle round, And, more than h.e.l.las taught of old, Our wiser lesson shall be told, Of slaves uprising, freedom-crowned, To break, not wield, the scourge wet with their blood and tears.

1868.

AT PORT ROYAL.

In November, 1861, a Union force under Commodore Dupont and General Sherman captured Port Royal, and from this point as a basis of operations, the neighboring islands between Charleston and Savannah were taken possession of. The early occupation of this district, where the negro population was greatly in excess of the white, gave an opportunity which was at once seized upon, of practically emanc.i.p.ating the slaves and of beginning that work of civilization which was accepted as the grave responsibility of those who had labored for freedom.

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.

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 pa.s.sed.

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.

SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN.

Oh, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come To set de people free; An' ma.s.sa tink it 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; Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!

Ole ma.s.sa on he trabbels 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; Oh 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 be scream.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow, We'll hab de rice an' corn Oh 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 hub him better free.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow, He'll gib de rice an' corn; Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hear De driver blow his horn!

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 G.o.d 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!

1862.

ASTRAEA AT THE CAPITOL.

ABOLITION OF SLAVERY IN THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA, 1862.

WHEN first I saw our banner wave Above the nation's council-hall, I heard beneath its marble wall The clanking fetters of the slave!

In the foul market-place I stood, And saw the Christian mother sold, And childhood with its locks of gold, Blue-eyed and fair with Saxon blood.

I shut my eyes, I held my breath, And, smothering down the wrath and shame That set my Northern blood aflame, Stood silent,--where to speak was death.

Beside me gloomed the prison-cell Where wasted one in slow decline For uttering simple words of mine, And loving freedom all too well.

The flag that floated from the dome Flapped menace in the morning air; I stood a perilled stranger where The human broker made his home.

For crime was virtue: Gown and Sword And Law their threefold sanction gave, And to the quarry of the slave Went hawking with our symbol-bird.

On the oppressor's side was power; And yet I knew that every wrong, However old, however strong, But waited G.o.d's avenging hour.

I knew that truth would crush the lie, Somehow, some time, the end would be; Yet scarcely dared I hope to see The triumph with my mortal eye.

But now I see it! In the sun A free flag floats from yonder dome, And at the nation's hearth and home The justice long delayed is done.