New national era. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1870-1874, 1871-04-27
In NJ EMORIAM.
BY REV. CHARLES W. nENIsoN.

1t was high noon in Washington-a noon
OF summer time-just forty years ago
The sun shone clear. Far on the Southern SIX,
A little cloud, like mans hand. hung low
On the horizon; but above, around, :
The wavy heat fell vertical to earth.
Along the thoroughfares all painting life
Passed to and fro with languid air. The leaves
Hung quiverless upon their boughs. The
streets
Glared in the sultry light In busy mart,
In market square, in public hall, twas still
Save, here and there, solitary man
Wended his way in silence. Near the house
Where sat the President in simple state,
Norpomp, nor regal show, nor mounted guard
Came forth slow sounds--the steady trsmp
of men,
In double file arrayed. Steady they marched
Then halted in the shade They were a band
Of slaves from Old Virginia. in chains:
By two and two, coffled and manacled
With iron links. Here grey man bound
close
Beside little child there strong serf
With rivets fastened to toothless crone;
Notwo OF kindred strength together knit,
For 1t was dangerous, the master said
Short was their rest.
'Move on ~ the drivers whip
Cracked over head But not a step thew
moved;
There must be music At the front, his arms
Both free, but heavy letters on his feet,
A stalwart negro stood erect, alone.
He was slave, with all the rest and torn,
Like them, from home and hearth, from wife
and child,
On the same journey to the auction block,
The chattel- pen, the cattle-car, the route
Of bondage in the fsr-off South
''Move on -
Loud cracked the whip again. Just then low
Soft, tender, plaintivs note fell on the ear.
oh! 1t was such a strain as Israel's harp
Might sound by BabePs streams, when
all enchanted
To dark captivity in Egypt land
SO sad the air, SO pititull 1t seemed
As if the player struck on living strings,
The chords of breaking human hearts
caster"
Gave out more rapid tones; but twas the
Sad tune of fettered souls the minor key
vi chattel misery
The coffe marched
On through the avenues of homes aud trade {;
DOWN by the drunken throngs of tavern haunts
And in the shadow of our nations flag
Sadly the music echoed to the march,
AS on the pavements rang the manacles,
Where the half stihed sob, and falling tear
bore witness before God, and angels, too,
how patnarchal was our slavery
Before the sun went down that summer dav,
L hat band was scattered by the auctioneer
l In, manacle, the driver s whip, still went
W here they had gone and ever in their house
vi bondage rang the herce cry out" Move
onI'
In wages robbed unpited sweat and groans
Drenching the earth, and burdening all the
Chained down to ignorance. to crime and
death
As living souls on Mammon's altar slain
BY fire to Moloch on our flag their blood
Our Magma Charta dripping with their tears ;
Still from that band, and chattel millions
Went up the same old shout of wore 'sMove
Two hundred years have heard that fearful
Rising in one long, bitter waling unto God I!
Move on - the slave power yelled. Hark
how the voice
vi Freedom echoed from her hammered felds--
Move on!' Our conquering millions sang
The answering battle chant of victory
Not III cotfied march of fettered slaves,
Not to the wall of bondman's violin,
But to the trumpet call of Liberty,
Freedom, and equal rights for every man,
Apotheosis of enfranchisement,
Armies and navies shouting sweet accord
The peal 'Move on'' rang through con
tinent,
Till Moloch, dashed upon his affairs horns,
Lay pierced and bleeding in his filthy dust,
And Mammon, ragged, groyelled at his side
IT'S over now. On that same spot, to day
Where that band halted, forty years ago,
Where to the drivers curse Move on
And to the captive strain, SO softly sad,
They marched to distant fields of toll and
suffering,
A freedman's school-house opens wide its
doors,
And we inscribe there-IN MEMoRIAg.