For fields of duty, opening wide,

Where all our powers
Are tasked the eager steps to guide
Of millions on a path untried :

THE SLAVE IS OURS !

Ours by traditions dear and old,

Which make the race
Our wards to cherish and uphold,
And cast their freedom in the mould

Of Christian grace.

And we may tread the sick-bed floors

Where strong men pine,
And, down the groaning corridors,
Pour freely from our liberal stores

The oil and wine.

Who murmurs that in these dark days

His lot is cast ?

God's hand within the shadow lays
The stones whereon His gates of praise

· Shall rise at last.

Turn and o’erturn, O outstretched Hand!

Nor stint, nor stay ; The years have never dropped their sand On mortal issue vast and grand

As ours to-day.

Already, on the sable ground

Of man's despair
Is Freedom's glorious picture found
With all its dusky hands unbound

Upraised in prayer.

O, small shall seem all sacrifice . And pain and loss, When God shall wipe the weeping eyes, For suffering give the victor's prize,

The crown for cross !

THE tent-lights glimmer on the land,

1 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 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.

0, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come

To set de people free ;
An' massa tink it day ob doom,

An' we ob jubilee.
De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves

He jus” as otrong as den;