Pour freely from our liberal stores Who murmurs that in these dark days God's hand within the shadow lays Turn and o'erturn, O outstretched Hand! The years have never dropped their sand Already, on the sable ground Is Freedom's glorious picture found O, small shall seem all sacrifice AT PORT ROYAL. THE tent-lights glimmer on the land, 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 The gold that kindly Nature sifts The power to make his toiling days 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 lurid glow falls strong across With oar-strokes timing to their song, The triumph-note that Miriam sung, SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN. O, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come An' massa tink it day ob doom, De Lord dat heap de Red-Sea waves He say de word: we las' night slaves; To-day, de Lord's freemen. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear Ole massa on he trabbels gone; De Lord's breff blow him furder on, De yam will grow, de cotton blow, O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear We pray de Lord: he gib us signs We tink it when de church-bell ring, De yam will grow, de cotton blow, O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear We know de promise nebber fail, An' nebber lie de word; De yam will grow, de cotton blow, So sing our dusky gondoliers; And smiles that seem akin to tears, 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, That laws of changless justice bind And, close as sin and suffering joined, Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall be Or death-rune of our doom! BARBARA FRIETCHIE. UP from the meadows rich with corn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Round about them orchards sweep, Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall Over the mountains winding down, Forty flags with their silver stars, Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; |