Southern Scenes

Southern Scenes

The sun is gone; and clouds of gold,
As banners on the breeze unrolled,
Crowned with imperial purple, rise;
And light, as calm as India's skies,
Gilds nature; aye, a holier ray,
Purer and kindlier than day -

As if a gleam from Heaven,

Bursting the portals of the skies,
Just as the sunlight glory dies,

Had smiled upon our even -

And zephyrs bland, from orange groves,
Blow gently now, and scarcely moves
The aspen with their breath. And lo!
The murmuring brook, in peaceful flow,
Bears on its breast as rich a glow,

As erst to streamlet given.

And gently glimmring stars are seen,
And kissed is every flower, I ween,

With pearly dew of even.

Yea, Nature drips, as if she rose
From the baptismal font, and glows
Within each pendant drop a light,
Caught from the silvery queen of night.
All - all is peaceful, solemn, still;
Save when the tuneful Whip-poor-will,
Re-answering to his partner's lay,
Awakes the echo's melody.

Burns not upon its sacred shrine,

The hearts own hallowing?

Or deems man that this hour divine,

Is one for sorrowing?

No; by the merry peals of mirth
Which break around the social hearth;
Or by the hallowed voice of prayer,
Which glows with fervent lustre there.
No; by the pensive attitude
Of that young girl, whose thoughtful mood
Speaks dreams of happiness passed by,
Unmingled with a future sigh.

This is the hour when Memory's star
Gleams o'er the Past, afar, afar;
And fancy lends her golden light,
All-conquering, beautiful and bright;
Until, with hours forever sped
And registered among the dead,
We mingle; not as though they were,
With cankering time, and grief, and care:
All these are past. They rank unblest,
Like hueless flowers to a long rest;
And pensive pleasures now, I ween,
Are only felt, are only seen;
While round each path is clustering bright,
The roseate hue of calm delight.

And where's the heart that beateth not
Less languidly? Where, now forgot
To all that's beautiful, still sleeps
The untroubled fount, the passive deep?
Oh waketh not, unbound and free,
In every one, Hope's minstrelsy?

List! Ah, a bitter wail
Is passing on the evening gale!
Burdening its pinions, fair and bright,
With dearth, and pestilence, and blight.
Ah! thought me that its gentle wings,
Might wake the pure Eolian strings;
Or rock the wood bird in its next,
Or fan the wearied in their rest;
Or kiss the lily in its sleep,
Or play around the eddying deep.
But lo! a deadlier sound it bears,
A sound of griefs, and wo, and fears;
And other deeds I deem 'twill swell,
And other deeds to man will tell.
See, from the land that's "Freedom's own!"
It bears the wearied bondsman's groan.
No closing days his rest betoken,
No words of love to him are spoken;
But yet the twinkling stars look out

Upon a task undone;

And yet he hears the dreaded shout,

"On to your labor - on!"

(Oh white man, in thy freedom proud
List to thy requiem long and loud,
That cometh from afar. Hear ye
The moaning in the forest tree!
Hear it - and let fair Freedom's fire,
Gone down with grief, fade and expire -
While 'neath the sceptre of thy power,
Millions of captive brethren cower.*)

Oh! why is it that even he,
The sire of all mankind, made free;
Yet who for this one "grievous sin,"
The ebon color of his skin,
For a few coins of paltry gold,
Like any brute, is bought and sold;
And under foot of man is trod,
The image of the living God!

Lo! where the myrtle casts its shade,
The chill dew falling on her head,
Bends low the form of womankind,
To supplicate the Eternal Mind.
What prayer is meet for such a one?
And could we say, "Thy will be done?"
Hark! sighs she for her mother's door,
With broad banana shadowed o'er;
Between whose leaves of shining green,
The moon beams fall in fitful gleam?
Or mother's love, as dear to her
As though her skin had known no blurr?
No, not for these she sigheth only;
Not all that she is sad and lonely;
But that oppression's arm be riven,
Her daily cry is sent to Heaven.

And will He who is ever nigh,
To the young ravens when they cry;
And will He lend a listening ear,
And hearken to the negress' prayer?
An, yes; this abject race shall come,

From every tongue and clime,

Back to their heritage of peace; -

Even in his own good time.

And songs shall rise, and praise be given,
From every nation under heaven;
Where'er the foot of man has trod,
To Freedom, and to Freedom's God.

*Omitted in speaking.

A young lady; AGNES

New Series 2:9, p. 36

1841.05.01

From Zion's Watchman: An original piece, spoken by a young lady, at an Exhibition of the Young Ladies' Literary Society, Wesleyan Academy, Wilbraham, Mass., March 3d, 1841.