Lines Delivered before the N.Y. Phoenixonian Literary Society, at its anniversary meeting.

Lines Delivered before the N.Y. Phoenixonian Literary Society, at its anniversary meeting.

One closing sultry summer day,
I wandered forth the view
The beauties of my native vale;
The scenes seemed ever new.
There danc'd the sunbeams on each hill,
Here shade did intervene;
While murm'ring sounds rose from each rill,
As it cours'd through foliage green.
And then the songs of feathered tribes,
As borne on evening's gale,
Came from each bush on mountain-side
Adown the sloping vale.
What sweetness did those notes prolong,
As God-ward they did rise:
Methought it were some seraph's song,
Who dwells above the skies
Listening to catch each dying sound,
As evening's shade did fall,
I heard a voice, borne o'er the ground,
In gentle accents call.
Again it came - the plaintive sound
Of woe methought would tell;
For it seem'd to call on one beloved,
As it echo'd through the dell,
With hurried step I hastn'd on,
Till in a cot I stood;
And there found her, from whom that sound
Had echoed o'er the sod.
Her care-worn cheek, and upturn'd look,
Each told of dark despair;
Her speech, her dress, her frenzied eye,
Told reason dwelt not there.
Ha! com'st thou now to steal my child?
(Ask'd she with vacant stare.)
Thou say'st it is thy slave - 'tis not!
'Twas born as free as air!
When the war trump's blast was heard
Throughout the land, when 'twas
His father took up arms to serve
His country and her cause.
On Orleans plain, in foremost rank,
He marched to shed his blood;
While ye from death in terror shrank,
Like adamant he stood!
Where were ye, while in battle's heat,
The cotton bales they rear?
Ye cowards, were ye not all safe
From danger? Yes, ye were.
When martial glory crowned his brow,
Ye said he should be free.
Why came ye hence to violate
That oath you pledged to me?
Why came ye in the dead of night,
When nature calls for rest,
To drag my husband from his home,
From all that he loved best?
But tell me, ye who bore him off
Unto your southern climes, -
Will he return to me again,
Freed from slavery's chains?
Ah yes! he comes! 'tis cold! 'tis cold!
(Said she, with fleeting breath,)
And sweetly smiling on her babe,
She breathed her last in death.

Up brothers, up! how long shall scenes
Like these your land disgrace?
Has not the plaint of human kind
Enter'd the holy place?
Dost thou not hear, on southern gales,
As northward they do blow,
From hill-top and from mountain-side,
The captives' tale of woe?
Why slumber then! while all that's just
And right is stricken down!
Dost thou not hear her spirit-voice
Crying from the ground?
Up, then! and onward for the cause!
And your songs shall be,
When victory shall crown your brows:
My native land is free!

July 4th, 1841.

R.H.

New Series 2:22, p. 87

1841.07.31

Delivered from the N.Y. Phonizonian Literary Society at its anniversary meeting