Poems in War Time, vol 3, part 4 | Page 4

chained and scourged, the slaves of slaves,

The lords of Chios into exile went.
"The gods at last pay well,"
So Hellas 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 Hellas 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 emancipating
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 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.
Oh, 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 '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 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.
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 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!
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