Already, on the sable ground Of man's despair AT PORT ROYAL. 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! At last our grating keels outslide, Our good boats forward swing; For dear the bondman holds his gifts 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 lurid glow fails 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 327 O, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves He say de word: we las' night slaves; De yam will grow, de cotton blow, De driver blow his horn! Ole massa on he trabbels gone; De yam will grow, de cotton blow, De driver blow his horn! We pray de Lord: he gib us signs De wild-duck to de sea; De rice-bird mean it when he sing, De yam will grow, de cotton blow, De driver blow his horn! We know de promise nebber fail, An' nebber lie de word; So like de 'postles in de jail, 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, We dare not share the negro's trust, Rude seems the song; each swarthy face, Flame-lighted, ruder still: That laws of changeless justice bind Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall be The Vala-song of Liberty, BARBARA FRIETCHIE. Up from the meadows rich with corn, |