TH

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.

AT PORT ROYAL.

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 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.

SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN.

O, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come
To set de people free;

An' massa tink it day ob doom,

An' we ob jubilee.

75

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 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.

We

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!

e 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:

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!

1

S

ICHABOD!

O fallen so lost! the light withdrawn
Which once he wore!

The glory from his gray hairs gone

Forevermore !

And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
Befit his fall!

O, dumb be passion's stormy rage,
When he who might

Have lighted up and led his age
Falls back in night!

Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark
A bright soul driven,
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,
From hope and heaven?