Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
America: Vols. XXV–XXIX. 1876–79.

Southern States: Port Royal, S. C.

At Port Royal

By John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892)

THE TENT-LIGHTS glimmer on the land,

The ship-lights on the sea;

The night-wind smooths with drifting sand

Our track on lone Tybee.

At last our grating keels outslide,

Our good boats forward swing;

And while we ride the land-locked tide,

Our negroes row and sing.

For dear the bondman holds his gifts

Of music and of song:

The gold that kindly Nature sifts

Among his sands of wrong;

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.

With oar-strokes timing to their song,

They weave in simple lays

The pathos of remembered wrong,

The hope of better days,—

The triumph-note that Miriam sung,

The joy of uncaged birds:

Softening with Afric’s mellow tongue

Their broken Saxon words.

O, PRAISE an’ tanks! De Lord he come

To set de people free;

An’ massa tink it day ob doom,

An’ we ob jubilee.

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;

O 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;

O 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:

O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear

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:

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,

He ’ll gib de rice an’ corn:

O 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!