The weekly Oskaloosa herald. [volume] (Oskaloosa, Iowa) 1855-1885, 1876-11-30
THE osKALoosA HERALD.
LEIGHTON & NEEDHAM, Editors.
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 80, 1875.

lin 1861, soon after the capture of Port Roy
al, South Carolina, by the Union soldiers, the
Quaker poet wrote the following, which was
published in the HERALD at the time, and made
such an impression on our mind that we remem-
bered several stanzas, though we have never
seen it since that time until recently. Just
now, when the fate of the nation hangs on the
vote of those same "dusky gondoliers," the
song comes back with even more than former
force, and the third stanza from the end, rings
in our ears as prophecy. God grant it may be
for good.l
AT PORT ROYAL.
BY JOHN GREENFEAF WHITTIER.
The tent-lights glimmer on the land,
The ship-lights on the sea-;
The night-wind smooths with drifting sapd
Our track on lone Tybee.
Att last our grating keels outside,
Our good boats forward swing;
And while we ride the land-locked tide,
Our negroes row and sing.
For dear the boatman holds the gifts
OF music and of song
The gold that kiadly Nature Sits
Among his sands of wrong;-
The power to make his toilng days
And poor hone-comforts please;
The quaint relief of mirth that plays
With sorrows minor keys.
Another glow than sunsets fire
Has filled the West with light,
Where field and garner, barn and Dyre
Are blazing through the night.
The land is wild with fear and hate;
nrhe rout runs mad and fast;
From hand to hand, fromsgate 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 fires yon blazing piles.
With oar.strokes timing with 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;
Sottening with Afric's mellow tongue
Their broken Saxon words.
SONG OF THE NEGRO BoATMAN.
o. praise an tanks! De Lord he come
10 set de people free;
And masSa tink it day OBJ doom,
An we OBJ jubilee.
De Lord, dat heap de Red Sea waves,
He JUS as 'trong as den;
He say de word: we las night slaves
To-day de Lords free men!
DE yam will grow, de cotton blow,
Wen hab de rice an corn;
o nebber you fear. if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!
Ole massa on he trabbles gone;
He leaf de land behind:
De Lord s breff blow him furder on,
Like corn shuk in de wind.
We own de hoe, we own de plough,
We own de hands dat hold;
We sell de pig; we sell de COW,
But nebber chile be sold.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
Wen hab de rice an corn;
Onebber 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 the church bell ring,
We dream it in de dream;
De rice-bird mean 1t when he sing,
De eagle when he scream.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow,
Wen hab de rice an corn;
Onebber you fear, If nebber you near
DE driver blow his horn!
We know his 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 hub him so before,
Welub him better free.
De yam will grow, de cotton blow
Wen glib de rice an corn;
o nebber you fear, if nebber you hear
De driver blow his horn!
So sang our dusky gondoliers;
And with a secret pain,
And smiles that seem akin to tears
We hear the wild refrain.
We dare not share the Negroes trust
Nor yet his hope deny;
We only know that God is just,
And every wrong shall die.
Rude seems the song; each swarthy face,
Flame-lighted, ruder still;
We start to think that helpless 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 vaa-song of Liberty,
Or dcath-rune of our doom.