So went he forth: but in God's time he came The land a saint that lost him as a slave. O dark, sad millions, patiently and dumb Breaks the long silence of your night of wrong! Arise and flee! shake off the vile restraint Heap only on his head the coals of prayer. Go forth, like him! like him return again, And heal with freedom what your slavery cursed. 6 74 TH The ship-lights on the sea; The night-wind smooths with drifting sand At last our grating keels outslide, Our good boats forward swing; And while we ride the land-locked tide, AT PORT ROYAL. For dear the bondman holds his gifts The power to make his toiling days Another glow than sunset's fire Has filled the West with light, 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, Softening with Afric's mellow tongue Their broken Saxon words. SONG OF THE NEGRO BOATMEN. O, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come To set de people free; An' massa tink it day ob doom, An' we ob jubilee. 75 De Lord dat heap de Red-Sea waves He say de word: we las' night slaves; De yam will grow, de cotton blow, O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear Ole massa on he trabbels gone; He leaf de land behind: De Lord's breff blow him furder on, But nebber chile be sold. De yam will grow, de cotton blow, O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear We pray de Lord: he gib us signs De Norf-wind tell it to de pines, De wild-duck to de sea; We tink it when de church-bell ring, De rice-bird mean it when he sing, De eagle when he scream. 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; So like de 'postles in de jail, We waited for de Lord: AT PORT ROYAL. 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, O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear So sing our dusky gondoliers; And, with a secret pain, And smiles that seem akin to tears, We dare not share the negro's trust, We only know that God is just, Rude seems the song; each swarthy face, We start to think that hapless race That laws of changeless justice bind And, close as sin and suffering joined, 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! 77 |