And in trustful innocence
Draw new strength and courage thence;
He, the proud man, feels within
But the cowardice of sin!
She can murmur in her thought
Simple prayers her mother taught,
And His blessed angels call,
Whose great love is over all;
He, alone, in prayerless pride,
Meets the dark Past at her side!
One, who living shrank with dread
From his look, or word, or tread,
Unto to whom her early grave
Was as freedom to the slave,
Moves him at this midnight hour,
With the dead's unconscious power!
Ah, the dead, the unforgot!
From their solemn homes of thought,
Where the cypress shadows blend
Darkly over foe and friend,
Or in love or sad rebuke,
Back upon the living look.
And the tenderest ones and weakest,
Who their wrongs have borne the meekest,
Lifting from those dark, still places,
Sweet and sad-remembered faces,
O'er the guilty hearts behind
An unwitting triumph find.
OF A VIRGINIA SLAVE MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTERS SOLD INTO SOUTHERN
Gone, gone, -sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters, -
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone, -sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
There no mother's eye is near them,
There no mother's ear can hear them;
Never, when the torturing lash
Seams their back with many a gash,
Shall a mother's kindness bless them,
Or a mother's arms caress them.
Gone, gone, -sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters, -
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone, -sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
O, when weary, sad, and slow,
From the fields at night they go,
Faint with toil, and racked with pain,
To their cheerless homes again,
There no brother's voice shall greet them, -
There no father's welcome meet them.
Gone, gone, -sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters, -
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone, -sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
From the tree whose shadow lay
On their childhood's place of play, -
From the cool spring where they drank,-
Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank, -
From the solemn house of prayer,
And the holy counsels there, -
Gone, gone, -sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters, -
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone, -sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
Toiling through the weary day,
And at night the spoiler's prey.
O that they had earlier died,
Sleeping calmly, side by side,
Where the tyrant's power is o'er,
And the fetter galls no more!
Gone, gone, --sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters, -
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
Gone, gone, -sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
By the holy love He beareth, -
By the bruised reed He spareth, -
O, may He, to whom alone
All their cruel wrongs are known,
Still their hope and refuge prove,
With a more than mother's love.
Gone, gone,-sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters, -
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!
P the streets of Aberdeen,
By the kirk and college green,
Rode the Laird of Ury;
Close behind him, close beside,
Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,
Pressed the mob in fury.
Flouted him the drunken churl,
Jeered at him the serving-girl,
Prompt to please her master;
And the begging carlin, late
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate,
Cursed him as he passed her.
Yet, with calm and stately mien,
Up the streets of Aberdeen
Came he slowly riding:
And, to all he saw and heard,
Answering not with bitter word,
Turning not for chiding.
Came a troop with broadswords swinging,
Bits and bridles sharply ringing,
Loose and free and froward;
Quoth the foremost, "Ride him down!
Push him! prick him! through the town
Drive the Quaker coward!"
But from out the thickening crowd
Cried a sudden voice and loud:
"Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!"
And the old man at his side
Saw a comrade, battle-tried,
Scarred and sun-burned darkly;
Who with ready weapon bare,
Fronting to the troopers there,
Cried aloud: "God save us,
Call ye coward him who stood
Ankle deep in Lutzen's blood,
With the brave Gustavus?"
"Nay, I do not need thy sword,
Comrade mine," said Ury's lord;
"Put it up, I pray thee:
Passive to his holy will,
Trust I in my Master still,
Even though He slay me.
"Pledges of thy love and faith, Proved on many a field of death, Not by me are needed."
Marvelled much that henchman bold, )
That his laird, so stout of old,
Now so meekly pleaded.
"Woe's the day!" he sadly said,
With a slowly-shaking head,
And a look of pity;
"Ury's honest lord reviled,
Mock of knave and sport of child,
In his own good city!
"Speak the word, and, master mine, As we charged on Tilly's line,
And his Walloon lancers, Smiting through their midst we'll teach Civil look and decent speech
To these boyish prancers!”
"Marvel not, mine ancient friend,
Like beginning, like the end ":
Quoth the Laird of Ury,
"Is the sinful servant more
Than his gracious Lord who bore
Bonds and stripes in Jewry?
"Give me joy that in his name
I can bear, with patient frame,
All these vain ones offer;
While for them He suffereth long,
Shall I answer wrong with wrong,
Scoffing with the scoffer?
"Happier I, with loss of all, Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall,
With few friends to greet me, Than when reeve and squire were seen, Riding out from Aberdeen,
With bared heads to meet me.
"When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, Blessed me as I passed her door;
And the snooded daughter, Through her casement glancing down, Smiled on him who bore renown
From red fields of slaughter.
"Hard to feel the stranger's scoff,
Hard the old friend's falling off,
Hard to learn forgiving.
But the Lord his own rewards,
And his love with theirs accords,
Warm and fresh and living.
"Through this dark and stormy night Faith beholds a feeble light
Up the blackness streaking; Knowing God's own time is best, In a patient hope I rest
For the full day-breaking!"
So the Laird of Ury said,
Turning slow his horse's head
Towards the Tolbooth prison, Where, through iron grates, he heard Poor disciples of the Word
Preach of Christ arisen!
Not in vain, Confessor old,
Unto us the tale is told
Of thy day of trial;
Every age on him, who strays
From its broad and beaten ways,
Pours its sevenfold vial.
Happy he whose inward ear
Angel comfortings can hear,
O'er the rabble's laughter;
And, while Hatred's fagots burn,
Glimpses through the smoke discern
Of the good hereafter.
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