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;

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!

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!

John Greenleaf Whittier.

Potomac, the River, Va.

THE PICKET-GUARD.

THE authorship of this poem has been attributed to different writers. The New York Evening Post says: "We have before us a note from Mr. H. M. Alden, the editor of Harper's Weekly, informing us that it was written by Mrs. Ethel Lynn Beers, and originally contributed to Harper's Weekly."

A

LL quiet along the Potomac, they say,

Except now and then a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
By a rieman hid in the thicket.

'Tis nothing: a private or two, now and then,
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost, only one of the men,
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle.

-

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
Their tents, in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind
Through the forest leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,

And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed,
Far away in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,

For their mother, — may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night, when the love yet unspoken

Leaped up to his lips, — when low, murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place,
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree, -
The footstep is lagging and weary;

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?

It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good by!"
And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,-
No sound save the rush of the river;

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,-
The picket 's off duty forever.

Ethel Lynn Beers.

A

A POTOMAC PICTURE.

LITTLE shallop floating slow along
The fair Potomac's tide,

The oarsman pausing for a simple song,

Sung softly at his side;

A quaint, old-fashioned love-song, such as stirs
All tender souls, and thrills

To sudden youth the hearts of grandmothers,
Among New England's hills.

Great boughs of laurel garlanding the boat,
Won from the bloomy store

Of forests, lying purple and remote
Along the eastern shore.

Far off, the city and the growing dome
Of the fair Capitol, -

White and ethereal as the feathery foam
Fringing the oar-blade's fall.

A fort looks down in silence from the hill,
Holding its fiery breath,

As loath to mar the peace so sweet and still
By any thought of death.

The blossomed fruit-trees drape the frowning walls,
Disputing all their gloom,

And on the pyramids of cannon-balls

Drops the white chestnut-bloom.