The voice of freedom. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1839-1848, 1839-05-18
POE T r Y
From the Christian Witness.
THE FUGITIVE.

THE FUGITIVE.
ashal torture no more with the scourge and the chain
he feiter that bound me is broken in twain
leave you the links with the blood-rust thereon,
itnes Of deeds that the despot hath done.
sy--and for ever-I spurn the control
hath Filtered my body and bowed down my soul
the pide of freeman rample in
yoke hat my neck hath too patiently borne !
fe mi allow my track where the heritage is red,
Or mlbof hath been bathed in the blood of your dead
emapoIow in vengeance--bu for the hour!
pr ya footsteps are grt by perilous power'
e spe- and the triumph of vengeance was seen
the sh of his eye and the pride ofhis mein,
ind hniutered curse on the land of the South
While Nmle of derson still played round his mouth.
)ne ~ on the spot which his hatred hath cursed,
Andvay, like seed of the wild, he hath burst!
Exnl, he bounds hilltop and plain,
Aps Dol spurns the earth with the pride of disdain.
more shall the blood Of the fugitive drip
fwarnly and red from the overseer's whip
! lmofe shall thrill on the fugitivcs car,
4 "a threat of the master, the taunt and the jeer.
May 10 the land of the North--for her star
macon thy course from its blue home affair."
M ike the wind-pausng not to look back,
10 seeker of blood shall be quick thy track
ii S1e the home of the planter magnificent stood,
Il Ne smoudering ruins and footprints in BLOOD
iefe the tone of the vol soft the air,
III lie voice of the mourner-the wall of despair
~ wo for the lovely, the good, and the brave,
he whirldwind of vengeance swept down the grave
a the spoiler swept on like demon of wrath,
4 "a Massacre yelled in his havoc strown path!
On the still air of midnight, terrible cry,
ke the trumpet of Doom, called the secpers-to die!
They woke-but the prayer of their anguish vain,
III the sabre is red with the blood of the slain!
When the morning looked from the East with its sun,
The work of destruction and vengeance done
And the smoke, like pail wrapt the desolate scene,
Md Ruin scowled darkly where Beauty had been
What marvel? Yet weep for the tree and the flower
Swept down to the dust in a terrible hour!
For the strength that hath passed om the place where
stood
For the light that quenched in tempest Of blood!
Oh! this the work of revenge and despair,
When the feter and yoke were too calling to bear
For the iron had entered the fugtve's SOUL
Till he spurned in his hatred the tyrant's control
From his wife and his child they had torn him apart,
Unheeding the anguish that gnawed at his heart
And he knew that the daughter he idolized, must
Be doomed to life of pollution and lust.
Then the demon awoke-and he vowed in his wrath,
That the blood of the master should crimson his path,
And that Ruin should howl Ger their desolae hearth,
Who had scoffed at his in the madness of mirth.
And dark the hatred he nursed in his breast,
Till the thirst for revenge robbed his spirit Of rest
Then he swept DER their home like whirlwind of fire.
And Destruction trod close in the path of his ire!
Flow darkly, 81. lila! for mixed with thy food
There are tears in the track of the Shedder Of blood
And thy waves have tone like funeral wall
As they fling their low voice TO the answering gale
From his patchwork the Slayer in triumph hath gone
Weep, land of the South! for his deed is thine own
Nh, weep till thine eyeballs in agony swim,
Tor the cup of thy trembling is filled to the brim!
W. II. B.