The Irish republic. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1867-18??, 1867-09-21
POETRY.
The Slave.

The Slave.
Composed by Archbishop Hughes, in 1924.
THE following admirable poem, written by one who W,
ely the revered and acknowledged Head of the Catho
urch in America proves that he and the great religion
immunity over which he presided were true to IL
red trust of human liberty.-EDs I. r.
Hard is the lot of him who's doomed to toll
Without one slender hope to soothe his pain,
Whose sweat and labor are masters spoil,
Whose sad reward masters proud dsdain.
Wipe from thy code, Columbia, wipe the stain;
BE free as air, but yet be kind as free,
And chase foul bondage from thy Southern plain:
Ii such the right of man, by heavens degree,
Oh then let Afric's sons feel what it is-to be.
In hot meridian day of late, I hied
To court the covert of spreading oak;
l sat beneath-and thence in pity eyed
The negro moiling at his daily yoke.
And still he piled the dull, Responding stroke,
Beneath the searching of the noon-tde sun,
Sulen and SILENT or if words he spoke,
could not hear; but ever and anon
heard the lashwhch even brutes are fain to shun.
The ruthless driver soon was forced to yield;
Though strong of sinew, still he could not bear
The tyrant labors of the parching field
But sought shade to breathe purer air;
Whilst, less inhuman, but, alas less fair,
The drudging slave began to pour his song
Upon the needless wind, and breathe despair.
He sung the negroes foul, unpitied wrong
Sad and lrOnical-late he felt the thong.
Hail, Columbia happy land!
Where freedom waves her golden wand,
Where equal justice reigns.
But alb! Columbia, great and free,
Has not boon for mine and me,
But slavery and chains
Oh once I had soothing Joy,
The hope of other years,
That free Columbia would destroy
The source of these my tears
But pining, declining,
l still drag to the grave,
Doomed to sigh till l die,
Free Coumba's slave.
"Hail, Columbia, happy land!
Whose sons, a free, heaven-bom band,
Will free soon with blows.
If freeman's freest blood were shed,
Could it be purer real
Than this of mine that flows?
Twas freeman's whip that brought this gore
That trickles down my breast;
But soon my bleeding will be Ger,
My grave will yield me rest.
l will, then, until then,
Abide my hard and hopeless lot;
But there's room in the tomb
For reemen, too, to rot.
Hail, Columbia, happy land
Where those who show fairer hand
Enjoy sweet liberty.
But from the moment of my birth,
l slave along Columbias earth,
Nor freedom smiles on me.
Long have pinned through years of woe,
Adown LIES bleeding track
And still my tears my blood, must flow,
Because my hand is black.
Still boiling, still toiling,
Beneath the burning heats of noon,
l. poor slave, court the grave;
O Columbia, grant the boonl
"Hail, Columbia, hap"
He ceased the song and heaved another sigh,
In silent, cherries mood-for, ah the while
The drivers hated steps were drawing nigh;
Nor song of woe, nor words dare then beguile
The goaded sorrows of thing SO vile
Yet such the plaintive song that caught my ear,
That cold humanity may blush to smile,
When doye-eyed Mercy softly leans to hear,
And Pity turns aside to shed another tear.
From the Irishmal
Oh! For the Old Heroic Days.
for the old heroic days. for the of valiant moul
sturdy thought and fearless Speech and conscience pun