De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves
He jus’ as ’trong as den;

He say de word: we las' night slaves;
To-day, de Lord's freemen.

De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
We'll hab de rice an' corn:

Oh, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!

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 :

Oh, 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 :
Oh, nebber you fear, if nebber
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 :

you

hear

An' now he open ebery door,
An' trow away de key;
He tink we lub him so before,

We lub him better free.

De

will yam

grow,

de cotton blow,

He'll gib de rice an' corn:

Oh, 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.

UNIV. OF CALIFORNIA

POEMS OF THE CIVIL WAR.

CAROLINA.

I.

THE despot treads thy sacred sands,
Thy pines give shelter to his bands,
Thy sons stand by with idle hands,
Carolina!

He breathes at ease thy airs of balm,
He scorns the lances of thy palm;
Oh, who shall break thy craven calm,
Carolina!

Thy ancient fame is growing dim,
A spot is on thy garment's rim ;
Give to the winds thy battle-hymn,
Carolina !

II.

Call on thy children of the hill,
Wake swamp and river, coast and rill,
Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill,
Carolina!

Cite wealth and science, trade and art,
Touch with thy fire the cautious mart,
And pour thee through the people's heart,
Carolina!

Till even the coward spurns his fears,
And all thy fields and fens and meres
Shall bristle like thy palm with spears,
Carolina!

III.

Hold up the glories of thy dead;
Say how thy elder children bled,
And point to Eutaw's battle-bed,
Carolina!

Tell how the patriot's soul was tried,
And what his dauntless breast defied;
How Rutledge ruled and Laurens died,
Carolina!

ΤΟΙ

10 VIMU AIMBOTILIAD

102

BUGLE-ECHOES:

Cry! till thy summons, heard at last,
Shall fall like Marion's bugle-blast
Re-echoed from the haunted Past,
Carolina !

IV.

I hear a murmur as of waves

That grope their way through sunless caves,
Like bodies struggling in their graves,
Carolina !

And now it deepens; slow and grand
It swells, as, rolling to the land

An ocean broke upon thy strand,
Carolina!

Shout! let it reach the startled Huns,
And roar with all thy festal guns;
It is the answer of thy sons,

Carolina!

V.

They will not wait to hear the call;
From Sachem's Head to Sumter's wall
Resounds the voice of hut and hall,
Carolina!

No! thou hast not a stain, they say,
Or none save what the battle-day
Shall wash in seas of blood away,
Carolina!

Thy skirts indeed the foe may part,
Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart,
They shall not touch thy noble heart,

Carolina!

VI.

Ere thou shalt own the tyrant's thrall
Ten times ten thousand men must fall;
Thy corpse may hearken to his call,

Carolina!

When, by thy bier, in mournful throngs
The women chant thy mortal wrongs,
"Twill be their own funereal songs,
Carolina!

From thy dead breast by ruffians trod
No helpless child shall look to God;
All shall be safe beneath thy sod,
Carolina!

VII.

Girt with such wills to do and bear,
Assured in right, and mailed in prayer,
Thou wilt not bow thee to despair,
Carolina !

Throw thy bold banner to the breeze!
Front with thy ranks the threatening seas
Like thine own proud armorial trees,
Carolina !

Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns,
And roar the challenge from thy guns;
Then leave the future to thy sons,

Carolina!

HENRY TIMROD.

VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP UNION. [1862.]

'TIS midnight through my troubled dream

Loud wails the tempest's cry;

Before the gale, with tattered sail,

A ship goes plunging by.

What name? Where bound ?-The rocks around

Repeat the loud halloo.

-The good ship Union, southward bound:

God help her and her crew!