While, faithful to the Higher Cause, The levelled gun, the battle-brand, Why ask for ease where all is pain? Be left to add our gain to gain, To suffer well is well to serve ; The rigid lines of law shall curve And light is mingled with the gloom, In sweet relief. Thanks for our privilege to bless, By word and deed, The widow in her keen distress, For fields of duty, opening wide, THE SLAVE IS OURS! Ours by traditions dear and old, And we may tread the sick-bed floors And, down the groaning corridors, Who murmurs that in these dark days His lot is cast? God's hand within the shadow lays The stones whereon His gates of praise Shall rise at last. Turn and o'erturn, O outstretched Hand! Nor stint, nor stay; The years have never dropped their sand On mortal issue vast and grand Already, on the sable ground Is Freedom's glorious picture found, O, small shall seem all sacrifice When God shall wipe the weeping eyes, AT PORT ROYAL. THE tent-lights glimmer on the land, The night-wind smooths with drifting sand Our track on lone Tybee. At last our grating keels outslide, 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 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. BARBARA FRIETCHIE. With oar-strokes timing to their song, 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. 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, O nebber you fear, if nebber you De driver blow his horn! So like de 'postles in de jail, 269 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! Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town. Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Under his slouched hat left and right "Halt!"-the dust-brown ranks stood fast. "Fire!" out blazed the rifle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, The nobler nature within him stirred All day long that free flag tost And through the hill-gaps sunset light more. Honor to her! and let a tear COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. The tales that haunt the Brocken And whisper down the Rhine. Woodsy and wild and lonesome, The swift stream wound away, Through birches and scarlet maples Flashing in foam and spray, Down on the sharp-horned ledges Plunging in steep cascade, Tossing its white-maned waters Against the hemlock's shade. Woodsy and wild and lonesome, East and west and north and south; Only the village of fishers Down at the river's mouth; Only here and there a clearing, With its farm-house rude and new, And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, Where the scanty harvest grew. No shout of home-bound reapers, 86 271 For the merry grape-stained maidens, And the pleasant songs they sung! "O for the breath of vineyards, Of apples and nuts and wine! For an oar to row and a breeze to blow Down the grand old river Rhine!" A tear in his blue eye glistened, And dropped on his beard so gray. "Old, old am I," said Keezar, "And the Rhine flows far away!" But a cunning man was the cobbler; He could call the birds from the trees, Charm the black snake out of the ledges, And bring back the swarming bees. All the virtues of herbs and metals, All the lore of the woods, he knew, And the arts of the Old World mingled With the marvels of the New. Well he knew the tricks of magic, 'Why should folk be glum," said Kee- For the mighty master Agrippa zar, "When Nature herself is glad, And the painted woods are laughing At the faces so sour and sad?" Small heed had the careless cobbler And planted a state with prayers, But give him his ale and cider, Give him his pipe and song, Little he cared for Church or State, Or the balance of right and wrong. ""Tis work, work, work," he muttered, "And for rest a snuffle of psalms!" He smote on his leathern apron With his brown and waxen palms. "O for the purple harvests Of the days when I was young! Wrought it with spell and rhyme From a fragment of mystic moonstone In the tower of Nettesheim. To a cobbler Minnesinger - The marvellous stone gave he, He held up that mystic lapstone, "One hundred years," quoth Keezar, "And fifty have I told : Now open the new before me, And shut me out the old!" Like a cloud of mist, the blackness Still ran the stream to the river, And cold north hills behind. But the mighty forest was broken By many a steepled town, By many a white-walled farm-house, And many a garner brown. Turning a score of mill-wheels, The stream no more ran free; White sails on the winding river, White sails on the far-off sea. Below in the noisy village Swiftly the rival ploughmen Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking, Nor mopes, nor fools, are they. "Here's pleasure without regretting, "Here's a priest and there is a Quaker, Do the cat and dog agree? Have they burned the stocks for ovenwood? Have they cut down the gallows-tree? Turned the brown earth from their "Would the old folk know their chil And with blooms of hill and wild- There, in the deep, dark water, The magic stone lies still, Under the leaning willows In the shadow of the hill. But oft the idle fisher Sits on the shadowy bank, And his dreams make marvellous pic tures Where the wizard's lapstone sank. And still, in the summer twilights, The weary mill-girl lingers Beside the charméd stream, And the sky and the golden water Shape and color her dream. Fair wave the sunset gardens, The rosy signals fly; Her homestead beckons from the cloud, And love goes sailing by! |