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, Nor yet his hope deny; 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 The Vala-song of Liberty, Or death-rune of our doom! 77 S ICHABOD! O fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn The glory from his gray hairs gone Forevermore ! Revile him not, the Tempter hath A snare for all ; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, O, dumb be passion's stormy rage, Have lighted up and led his age Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark Let not the land, once proud of him, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, But let its humbled sons, instead, A long lament, as for the dead, Of all we loved and honored, naught A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains. OUR STATE. All else is gone; from those great eyes When faith is lost, when honor dies, Then, pay the reverence of old days Walk backward, with averted gaze, THE OUR STATE. HE South-land boasts its teeming cane, And sunset's radiant gates unfold Rough, bleak and hard, our little State From Autumn frost to April rain, Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands, And wintry hills, the school-house stands, The riches of the commonwealth Are free, strong minds, and hearts of health; The cunning hand and cultured brain. 79 For well she keeps her ancient stock, Nor heeds the sceptic's puny hands, While near her church-spire stands the school! STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. THE 1850. HE evil days have come, Bar up the hospitable door, the poor Put out the fire-lights, point no more For Pity now is crime; the chain Is melted at her hearth in twain, Our Union, like a glacier stirred Or bell of kine, or wing of bird, Poor, whispering tremblers! Our blood and name; - yet we boast Bursting its century-bolted frost, Each gray cairn on the Northman's coast STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. O for the open firmament, The prairie free, The desert hillside, cavern-rent, Than web of Persian loom most rare, Better the rough rock, bleak and bare, I hear a voice: "Thus saith the Law, I hear another voice: "The poor Turn not the outcast from thy door, Dear Lord! between that law and thee Yet not untrue to man's decree, Not mine Sedition's trumpet-blast I read the lesson of the Past, O, clear-eyed Faith, and Patience, thou Lend strength to weakness, teach us how 81 |