And so they found him when they sought him there,
Lifeless and cold in that secluded place,-
The rigid fingers clasped as if in prayer,
And that last smile of triumph on his face.
HA! the wine-press of pain hath been trodden!
And suffering's meed mantles high,-
The perfect, rare wine, wrought of patience,
It moveth aright to the eye!
Oh! dark was the night while we trampled
Its death-purple grapes under foot;
And no song parted silence from darkness,
For Liberty's sibyl was mute!
And the fiends of the lowest were loosened,
To persecute Truth at their will!
They spat on her white shining forehead,
She standing unmoved and still!
The hiss of the white-blooded coward,
The vile breath of Calumny's brood,
Befouled and bedarkened the Kingdom,
And poisoned the place where we stood!
We-treading the ripe grapes asunder,
With failing and overworked feet;
Alone in the terrible darkness-
Alone in the stifling heat
With agony-drops raining over
Our weak hands from desolate brows;
With a deadlier pain in our spirits,
O'er whose failure no promise arose!
Shook the innermost being of justice,
Stirred the innermost pulse of our God;
With a cry of remonstrance whose anguish
Frightened devils and saints from its road!
All the pain of a long-martyred nation,—
All its giant-heart's, overtasked strength,-
In one Samson-like throe were unfettered,
Standing up for a hearing at length!
And-even as we fell in the darkness-
Falling down, with our mouths in the dust;
With toil-stained and redly-dyed garments
That betokened us true to our trust,
When the laugh of the scoffer was loudest,
And the clapping of cowardly hands,
A glory blazed out from the Westward,
That startled the far distant lands!
Ha! the wine-press of pain hath been trodden!
Now summon the laborers forth!
Let them come in their redly-dyed garments,
The lion-browed sons of the North!
Not for failure their veins have been leavened
With the vintage of SEVENTY-SIX !
Nor unworthy the blood of our heroes
With its rare olden currents to mix!
Ha! Conquerors! Come ye out boldly,
Full fronting our reverent eyes!
In the might of your glorious manhood,
Ye Saviours of Freedom, arise!
Come out in your sun-ripened grandeur,
Ye victors, who wrestled with wrong!
Come! toil-worn and weary with battle-
We greet you with shout and with song!
OUR Union, the gift of our fathers!
In wrath roars the tempest above!
The darker and nearer our danger,
The warmer and closer our love;
Though stricken, it never shall perish;
It bends, but not breaks, to the blast;
Foes rush on in fury to rend it,
But we will be true to the last.
Our Union, ordained by Jehovah,—
Man sets not the fiat aside!
As well cleave the welkin asunder
As the one mighty system divide.
The grand Mississippi sounds ever,
From pine down to palm the decree;
The spindle, the corn, and the cotton,-
One pæan-shout, Union, to thee!
Our Union, the lightning of battle
First kindled the flame of its shrine!
The blood and the tears of our people
Have made it forever divine.
In battle we then will defend it!
Will fight till the triumph is won!
Till the States form the realm of the Union As the sky forms the realm of the sun.
THE FISHERMAN OF BEAUFORT.
THE tide comes up, and the tide goes down,
And still the fisherman's boat,
At early dawn and at evening shade,
Is ever and ever afloat:
His net goes down, and his net comes up,
And we hear his song of glee:
"De fishes dey hates de ole slaves' nets,
But comes to de nets of de free."
The tide comes up, and the tide goes down,
And the oysterman below
Is picking away, in the slimy sands,
In the sands ob de long ago.
But now if an empty hand he bears,
He shudders no more with fear,
There's no stretching board for the aching bones,
And no lash of the overseer.
The tide comes up, and the tide goes down,
And ever I hear a song,
As the moaning winds, through the moss-hung oaks,
Sweep surging ever along:
"O massa white man! help de slave,
And de wife and chillen too;
Eber dey'll work, wid de hard, worn hand,
Ef ell gib 'em de work to do."
The tide comes up, and the tide goes down,
But it hides no tyrant's word,
As it chants unceasing the anthem grand
Of its Freedom, to the Lord.
The fisherman floating on its breast
Has caught up the key-note true:
"De sea works, massa, for't sef and God,
And so must be brack man too.
"Den gib him* de work, and gib him de pay,
For de chillen and wife him love;
And de yam shall grow, and de cotton shall blow,
And him nebber, nebber rove;
For him love de ole Carlina State,
And de ole magnolia-tree :
Oh! nebber him trouble de icy Norf
Ef de brack folks am go free."
WHEN THE GREAT REBELLION'S OVER.
CLIMBED the baby on her knee,
With an airy childish grace;
Prattled in her lovely face,-
"When will papa come
me to me?"
Papa?" soft the mother cried-
"Papa! ah! the naughty rover!
Sweet, my pet, he'll come to thee
When the great Rebellion's over!"
"Mamma once had rosy cheeks,
Danced and sang a merry tune;
Now she rocks me 'neath the moon,
Sits and sighs, but scarcely speaks."
*The colored people use the word "him" for "us," and apply the same pro noun to animate and inanimate objects, whether of masculine, feminine, or neuter gender.
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