Fremont journal. [volume] (Fremont, Sandusky County [Ohio]) 1853-1866, 1862-01-31
At Port Royal-1ee1.

The teDt-lghts glimmer on the land,
The ship-lights on the sea;
The night wind smooths with drifting san,
Our track on lone Tybee.
At last ourgratng keels outside,
Our good boats forward swing;
And while we ripe the land-locked tide,
Our negroes row and sing.
For dear the bondman holds his gifts
Of music and of song;
The gold that kindly Nature sits
Among the sands of wrong.
The power to make his toilinR DAYS
And poor home-comlorts please;
The quaint relief Of mirth that plays
With sorrows minor keys.
Another glow than sunsets fire
Has filed the West with light,
Where field and garner, barn and byre
Are blazing through the night.
The land is wild with fear and hate,
The rout runs mad and fast;
From hand to hand, from gate to gate,
The flaming brand is passed.
The lurid glow falls strong across
Dark faces broad with smiles;
Not theirs the terror, hate and loss
That fire yOn blazing piles.
With oar-strokes timing to their song,
They weave in simple lays
The pathos of remembered wrong,
The hope of better days
The triumph-note that Miriam sung
The joy of uncaged birds;
Softening with Afric's mellow tongue
Their broken Saxon words.
(soSG OF TGE NEGRO BoATMRN.)
oh, praise an tanks De Lord he come
To set de people free;
An massa tink it day OBJ doom,
An we OBJ jubilee.
De Lord dat heap de Read Sea waves
He jus as trong as den;
He say de word: we las night slaves;
To-day, de Lords freemen.
DE yam will grow, de cotton blow,
Wen hab de rice an corn:
oh, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn
Ole massa on he trabbles gone;
He leab de land behind:
De Lords breff blow him furder on,
Like corn-shuck in de wind
We own de hoe, we own de plow,
We own de hands dat hold;
We sell de pig, We sell de COW,
But nebber child be sold.
Dc yam VIII grow, Qe COTTON blow,
Wen hab de rice an corn:
Oh, nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn
We pray de Lord, he glib us signs
Dat some day we be free;
De Norf-wind tell it to de pines,
De wild duck to de sea;
We tink it when de church bell ring,
We dream it in dc dream;
De rice-bird mean it when he sing,
De eagle when he scream.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
Well hab de rice an corn;
Oh nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn
We know de promise nebber fail,
An nebber lie de word;
So, like de 'postles in de Jail,
We waited for de Lord:
An now he open cherry door,
An trow away de key;
He tink we lub him so before,
We lub him better free.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
He'll glib de rice an corn;
So nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn
So sing our dusky gondoliers;
And with secret pain,
And smiles that seem akin to tears.
We hear the wild refrain.
We dare not share the negro's trust,
Nor yet his hope deny:
We only know that God isjust,
And every wrong shall die.
Rude seems the song; each swarthy face,
Flame lighted, ruder still:
We start to think that hapless race
Must shape our good or ill;
That laws of changeless Justice bind
Oppressor with oppressed;
And, close as sin and suffering Joined
We march to Fate abreast
Sing on, poor hearts your chant shall be
Our sign of blight or bloom
The Vale-song of Liberty,
Or death-tune of our doom