The Dying Fugitive

The Dying Fugitive

Slowly o'er his darkened features,

Stole the warning shades of death;

And we knew the shadowing angel

Waited for his parting breath.

He had started for his freedom,

And his heart beat firm and high—

But before he won the guerdon,

Came the message—he must die.

He must die, when just before him

Lay the long'd for, precious prize—

And the hoeps that lit him onward,

Faded out before his eyes.

For a while a fearful madness,

Rested on his weary brain;

And he thought the hateful tyrant,

Had rebound his galling chain.

Then he raved in bitter anguish—

"Take me where that good man dwells!"

For a name to freedom precious

Lingered 'mid life's shattered cells.

But as sunshine gently stealing,

O'er the storm-cloud's gloomy track—

Through the tempests of his bosom,

Came the light of reason back.

And without a sigh or murmur

For the home he'd left behind,

Calmly yielded he his spirit,

To the Father of mankind.

Thankful that so near to freedom,

He with eager steps had trop—

E'er his ransomed spirit rested,

On the bosom of his God.

Frances Ellen Watkins (Harper)

1:5, pg. 1

8.20.1859