An Idyl Of The South

Part I. THE OCTOROON

Hail! land of the palmetto and the pine,
From Blue Ridge Mountain down to Mexic’s sea;
Sweet with magnolia and cape jessamine,
And thrilled with song, — thou art the land for me!
I envy not the proud old Florentine
The classic beauties of his Italy;
Give me but here to have my glory dream,
‘Mid fragrant woods and fields — by lake and stream.

Come with me then, — who have your leisure hours —
Where mem’ry’s path divides a fragrant shade;
Here on the lap of old Acadian bowers,
Come, rest you where no vulgar sounds invade.
Come, for the air is fresh with sparkling showers,
And dark with curtains, of magnolia made;
So from life’s care awhile come sit apart,
And listen to a story of the heart.

I shall not sing to you a sounding lay
Of gods contending till the lurid air
Is hoarse with the loud fury of their fray;
Shall not recite the lofty deeds and rare, —
The glories which attend the heroes’ way;
But I shall lead you where the walks are fair;
Where tufts of shade, and now and then a song,
Wait to delight us as we pass along.

The truthful story which I here relate,
Must run on like the prattling of a rill;
On heights of pleasure we shall sometimes wait,
Through winding vales shall loiter, if we will;
And we shall find that not among the great,
An Eden may the lover’s dream fulfil;
But lowly walks the fairest ends may bring, —
A lovely slave may even charm a king.

‘Mong hills of sturdy oak, my native land,
Where roll the waters of the Tennessee,
And palmy groves on Tampa’s sea-washed strand,
Are shrines of love forever dear to me.
And where the old Acadian mansions stand
Mid strange lagoons and by the dark Swanee,
I knew a creole, tall and lustrous-eyed;
And in my heart I hold her still with pride.

There, in the shadow of the cypress wood,
Where brooding Silence showed its thankful face;
Where moss-draped trees like Druids praying stood;
I’ve seen this idol of a gentle race,
When, like a spirit of the Solitude,
A paragon of Southern pride and grace,
She there inhaled the breath of fragrant bowers —
The sweet extravagance of shrubs and flowers.

When joyous as a brook that in its flow
Descants of promise in a hopeful lay,
Which ever leads the hearing soul to know
That bliss awaits us in a coming day.
I’ve watched her, where the minstrel warblers go
Among dark boughs, all undisturbed and gay,
When floods of song their brilliant joys revealed,
And felt that beauty to their hearts appealed.

And I must tell you of this Octoroon,
This blue-eyed slave, what sounds like a romance:
Her master was a fair young man, and soon
The proudest soul that Love, in seeming chance,
Had led beneath the full round Southern moon,
To coax sweet eyes to give him glance for glance;
And with her happy speech and sparkling wit
His fair slave charmed his soul — and captured it.

A lithe and shapely beauty; like a deer,
She looked in wistfulness, and from you went;
With silken shyness shrank as if in fear,
And kept the distance of the innocent.
But, when alone, she bolder would appear;
Then all her being into song was sent,
To bound in cascades — ripple, swirl and gleam,
A headlong torrent in a crystal stream.

Her name was Lena. She was but a child
In all save beauty; but she was a slave.
In far Unyoro’s wastes, Obokko’s wild,
Or by the blue N’yanza’s boatless wave,
Where hearts by worldly greed were undefiled,
‘Mid Afric’s groves some sweet ancestress gave
The strain of life which now still rushed along,
To warm her soul and break in tides of song.

White wonder of creation, in our clime,
‘Mid vistas cool and in the dark recess,
She mused where Nature wrought the true sublime,
And wove a habit for wild loveliness.
There where, like sentinels at the gates of Time,
Old live-oaks stood in grim and sober dress;
She learned the stately mien and charming speech,
Which only our old Southland’s scenes could teach.

Where Meditation found a leafy shrine,
And Vision wandered in a waste of bloom,
She touched her lips to Fancy’s ruddy wine,
And knew the bliss of Pleasure’s rare perfume.
Where zephyrs round her like sweet nuns did pine,
Who whispered prayers in some old cloister’s gloom;
Superb in form, divinely sweet in face
She grew — the charm of her delightful race.

With her young master she had strolled the green
When Heaven was in a shining overflow;
Had watched the stars the sleepy boughs between,
When winds crept by, almost afraid to blow.
But not as wooers had they thus been seen, —
Not as mere lovers at the trysting, — no!
The gentle slave no friend had ever known
But her proud master, and she was all his own.

He was of manly beauty — brave and fair;
There was the Norman iron in his blood.
There was the Saxon in his sunny hair
That waved and tossed in an abandoned flood;
But Norman strength rose in his shoulders square;
And so, as manfully erect he stood,
Norse gods might read the likeness of their race
In his proud bearing and patrician face.

A slave she was, but beatiful and dear!
Her ancestors had ridden with Hamilcar,
With heads of kings swung to their horses’ gear,
Upon the one hand; while at Trafalgar,
When England’s fleets made trembling Europe hear,
And flung the borders of her reign afar,
They, on the other had with Nelson stood —
Who, then, we ask, could boast of prouder blood?

No Cleopatra nor Semeramis;
No jewelled favorite of a Persian throne,
Could ever have the lily soul of this
Young slave, who through the old South walked alone,
‘Mid fields of waving grain, and knew the bliss
Of wading where the clover was full blown;
And listening to the music of the boughs,
While on the meads she heard the lowing cows.

Slaves have been many — Roman, Persian, Greek,
And harem beauties — Indian, Hindoo, Turk,
With eyes whose luring depths could softly speak,
Of souls wherein consuming passions lurk;
With shapely forms, on soft divans antique;
Where lace clouds hung in dreams of handiwork;
Sweet sounds Eolian through soft labyrinths crept;
And fragrance breathed where dainty zephyrs slept.

These creatures of the languid Orient, —
Rare pearls of caste, in their voluptuous swoon
And gilded ease, by Eunuchs watched and pent,
And doomed to hear the lute’s perpetual tune,
Were passion’s toys — to lust an ornament;
But not such was our thrush-voiced Octoroon, —
The Southland beauty who was wont to hear
Faith’s tender secrets whispered in her ear.

“An honest man’s the noblest work of” — No!
That threadbare old mistake I’ll not repeat.
A lovely woman — do you not think so? —
Is God’s best work. That she is man’s helpmeet,
The Bible says, and I will let it go;
And yet she crowns and makes his life complete.
Who would not shrive himself in her dear face,
And find his sinless Heaven in her embrace!

Young Maury loved his slave — she was his own;
A gift, for all he questioned, from the skies.
No other fortune had he ever known,
Like that which sparkled in her wild blue eyes.
Her seal-brown locks and cheeks like roses blown,
Were wealth to him that e’en the gods might prize.
And when her slender waist to him he drew,
The sum of every earthly bliss he knew.

They had grown up together, — he and she —
A world unto themselves. All else was bare, —
A desert to them and an unknown sea.
Their lives were like the birds’ lives — free and fair,
And flowed together like a melody.
They could not live apart, Ah! silly pair!
But since she was his slave, what need to say,
A swarm of troubles soon beset their way?

Just in the dawn of blushing womanhood;
Her swan-neck glimpsed through shocks of wavy hair;
A hint of olives in her gentle blood,
Suggesting passion in a rosy lair;
This shapely Venus of the cabins stood,
In all but birth a princess, tall and fair;
And is it any wonder that this brave
And proud young master came to love his slave?

He was a handsome and a noble fellow, —
Her master was, and now the hour was late.
The moonlight in the mulberry leaves was mellow,
Or rather, silvery soft, and seemed to wait; —
The moon had smiled when he began to tell, — oh,
Well, I might, perhaps, as well not state
What this young Saxon told his Octoroon,
When they were looking at the happy moon.

The dark shades round with fire-fly swarms were blinking,
And in the stillness of the mulberry tree
There was suggestion, — to my way of thinking
The trees may listen and the stars can see, —
The leaves had breath, the stars were through them winking,
And shadows seemed to veiled spectators be;
When Lena, looking in her master’s face,
With sinless trust leant in his strong embrace.

O’er her white brow the wistful moonbeams stole,
And, tangled in her tresses, seemed detained;
But soon, like fleeting fancies in the soul,
Were gone; — ah! could they only have remained.
And when night’s minstrel bird began to troll,
And pour her song in torrents forth untrained,
To rill through boughs and float along the skies,
The slave girl sighed and raised her wondering eyes.

And Maury clasped her, waving like a spray;
He stroked her locks; he tossed them — let them fall;
And saw the scattered moonbeams flash away,
Like silver arrows from a golden wall.
And there were whispers then like elves at play,
And through the leaves the winds began to crawl;
When Lena listening, heard her heart’s quick beat,
And startled, thought she heard approaching feet.

And am I doing violence to taste,
Or pride, or honor? Call it what ye will.
What of it? Why let beauty run to waste,
And hateful weeds Love’s blissful Eden fill?
Or, why should manhood suffer heartless caste,
To rob the bosom of its passion-thrill?
Young Maury loved his slave, and he was free
From meddling tongues beneath the mulberry tree.

If it be shame to love a pretty woman,
Then shameful loving is a pretty thing.
And of all things the most divinely human
Is this: — Love purifies life’s Fountain Spring;
And he who has not quaffed that fount is no man —
I’d rather be a lover than a king.
And then, preach as we will or may, we’ll find
That Cupid, dear young god, is sometimes blind.

Fair Dixie Land, thy sons of old were brave,
And earth proclaims thy daughters passing fair;
Thy blood and ancient prestige I would save,
Since time atones, and kindly bids me spare;
But why despise a daughter, though a slave,
Who was as taintless as the mountain air?
Why shun her, as a Magdalene within
Thy gates, when beauty was her only sin?

As homeward with his maid young Maury went,
His father shortly met him in the way,
And asked abruptly — what such conduct meant;
But would not hear what Sheldon had to say.
His heart was fixed and on prompt action bent;
He threatened in his ire to bring dismay
To son and slave — “to drive from home the pair”;
But Sheldon smiled to see him “beat the air.”

Love will not work by diagram or chart;
Will not be schooled by old Sobriety, —
Can not be reckoned as a “polite art;”
Nor as a child of “good society” —
Not wholly so, — love rules or wrecks the heart.
Now Sheldon’s father preached propriety;
For he was old enough to do such preaching,
But Sheldon was too young to heed the teaching.

Fair Morn’s descent upon the ocean shore
To sprinkle rock and wave with pulverin
Of mystic gold; the sound of breakers o’er
The lone beach piling; the adjacent din
Of woods; the storm’s cry and increasing roar
Of distant thunders, move the soul within;
But lovely woman beats earth, sky and ocean
In stirring manly souls with deep emotion.

And Maury could no more prevent his heart
From feeling than he could the tide prevent,
When Lena from her soul a song would start;
Or round him like an angel, brightly went.
The fine suggestions which he saw in art,
In her were strong with all that living meant.
And so his heart ran wild, and, without thought
Of consequences, in him now had wrought.

Infatuation. But it would not do.
“A shame!” his father cried, and then looked grave.
“The girl was good and pretty, that he knew;
But Sheldon must remember — was his slave.”
Into a rage, the young man straightway flew;
Against “Society” began to rave;
Withdrew and walked alone or stood morose,
As if the world for him held only foes.

Refusing food, he scarcely spoke a word,
But he would talk with Lena when he could;
And from his room upstairs, he seldom stirred.
“The truth was clear,” his mother understood.
“My boy will lose his mind,” she oft was heard
To whisper. “Nay, don’t cross him in his mood.”
And then she’d say to Lena: “You may go
And tell your dear young master” so and so.

And Lena went, — to his dear arms she flew.
A gust of joy, — a thousand nothings said;
Heard all he told her, — told him all she knew,
And like a burst of sunshine round him played.
Ah! she was helpless, but her heart was true;
And woman’s heart when true, with earth arrayed
Against her, conquers all, and ever will.
The gods are with a loving woman still.

Thus runs the story of an Indian bride:
‘Mid virgin woods along the rolling James,
A sweet young savage spies a white man tied, —
Ah! sneer not now, sophisticated dames!
Loves him at sight and, flying to his side,
Her only plea, a woman’s love proclaims.
And Powhattan, — for what else could he do? —
Accepts her plea, and loves the captive, too.

Joy now finds wings, — the news spreads far and wide,
And festal wood-fires stream through spectral boughs;
For Pocahontas is a white man’s bride, —
A virgin savage hears the white man’s vows.
She is to be his wife, his country’s pride,
Her people’s cause his country shall espouse;
And while the winding James shall roll along,
The forest glades repeat her bridal song.

How weirdly grand the tale has seemed to me,
Of Pocahontas and her lover, who
Perhaps sat on the trunk of some old tree
And watched the evening star go blazing through
Dark tops beyond, and saw, as lovers see,
A nascent moon unrobing to the view;
While, as they watched, he told her how the night
Is earth’s great shadow following its flight.

He may have told her how that shining star
Goes round and round forever and forever;
And that it is so far off — O, so far!
A bird could fly and reach it never, never.
Or told her what new moons, what full moons are,
And found himself repaid for his endeavor
When he looked in his dusky pupil’s eyes,
Aglow with love and sparkling with surprise.

Perhaps he spoke of lands beyond the sea;
Of cities and great “wigwams” built of stone;
With walls as high as any forest tree; —
Said she one day should such a wigwam own.
And then, I ween, she nestled lovingly,
And felt his arm around her gently thrown;
And from that hour, true love has kept her shrines
Beneath the old Virginia oaks and pines.

Now Lena was the child of teeming farms;
The squaw-girl was a native of the wild.
The one was rich with thought’s distinctive charms, —
The other simply Nature’s untaught child.
The one held faith clasped in her glowing arms;
The other held a stranger’s hand and smiled.
And Lena’s cheeks with health’s proud rose were tinted,
While in the squaw-girl’s ne’er a rose was hinted.

Great Randolph, genius of the acrid tongue,
Eccentric, proud, whose words in high debate,
Were wasps of fire that scorched and hit and stung
When he that hawk-voice pitched to irritate,
And haughty challenges were lightly flung;
The hounds and Negroes on his vast estate,
Fared better than the noble Senators,
Who dared to meet him in polemic wars!

And Randolph claimed that blue blood — bluest blue —
And blood of Pocahontas in his veins
Their torrents wildly clashed and mingling threw.
And so, he stood aloof in pride’s domains,
While love of country, — only love he knew, —
Was all that gave his life those nobler strains
Which charmed his great compeers, — their country’s pride —
Made them his friends, and drew them to his side.

The “Sage of Ashland” — earth’s unrivalled Clay,
Lashed by his wit and withered by his scorn,
Sought the ignoble “code” to wipe away
The biting insult, and though mighty-born, —
The Cicero of his historic day —
His life was thus of highest glory shorn,
Till kindlier age to him had reconciled
The proud descendant of Powhattan’s child.

But to our story let us now return:
Young Maury grew more moody every day,
And his proud mother thought she could discern
His mind “beginning, plainly, to give way.”
But “Wait,” his father urged; “I’ll have him learn
That I can check him in his childish play.
I’ll sell the girl and straightway let her go;
But till she’s gone, I will not let him know.”

“My way is clear. The affair I’ll thus arrange:
I’ll carry Lena with me up to town
Upon a visit. — This will not seem strange, —
And thence I’ll hire Hanks to take her down
To Major Royall’s. Then my son may change
His course or stop. And when he has outgrown
The whims and foibles of a vapid mind,
He’ll laugh to think he once was color blind.”

The mother shook her head and sadly smiled;
And said, “I have not anything to say.”
But vowed: “I never will be reconciled,
Will not agree to send the girl away.
She is my slave and nothing but a child;
And she has done no crime; say what we may.”
And as she spoke, the mists came in her eyes
Like hints of rain which fill blue summer skies.

“My boy,” said she, “I know has but one thought
“And that is to befriend a helpless girl.
And did he not do so, he surely ought.
She is as brightly pure as any pearl
Wave-hued, from deepest caves of ocean brought;
And Sheldon Maury is nor knave nor churl!”
And brighter sparks from flint were never dashed,
Than now from this proud lady’s blue eyes flashed.

But — love his slave! Could such, a proud man do?
Should this with shame not hang a Maury’s head?
Nay, loving arms which Lena fondly threw
Around her master’s neck, while her eyes plead
With tender flame, moved him, and rightly, too.
For, did not Persia’s Monarch love a maid
Who was a slave in Shushan, — crown her queen, —
The meek ancestress of the Nazarene?

And Moses, great law lord of Mount Sinai;
Found in a desert path of Midian
A dark-eyed Shepherdess, lute-voiced and shy,
With Jethro’s flocks, her cheeks were olive tan,
Tinged by the glare of an Egyptian sky, —
And claimed her for his bride, far worthier than
The titled beauties of the Memphian court,
Who led imperial rakes in royal sport.

And ‘mong the flowers in Bethel’s corners hid,
A sweet-faced mourner gleaned the scanty grain;
When lordly Boaz, noting what she did,
Called to the young men in his harvest train,
And, pointing, said: “To touch her I forbid.”
But drop for her some handsful from the wain.”
“Yea,” cried the reapers, and were singing heard; —
But Boaz, he hung back to speak a word.

The flower of Moab, blushing at his feet
Among the sheaves, was sweet to look upon.
She sat and sang, and filled her lap with wheat;
She sang of Israel. The harvest sun
Was in her face, but once she glanced to meet
The eyes of Boaz and the work was done;
Her soul was in her lovely eyes disclosed,
And Boaz faced his sunrise, — he proposed!

How sweet to think that, if the golden grains
Of life’s imperial harvests never fall
Upon our threshing floors, there still remains
A sheaf for gleaners, — that we, after all,
May follow, and behind the reapers’ wains,
Take up love’s scattered handfuls, though but small.
That Fortunatus, where he passes through,
Must still leave work for loving hands to do.

Before the world, I hold that none of these:
The Shushan slave, the Oreb shepherdess,
Nor Moab’s gleaner, ever had the ease
Of carriage, grace of speech, the stateliness
Of step and pose, nor had the art to please
And charm with symphonies of form and dress,
Nor had such wond’rous eyes, such lovely mouth,
As had this blue-eyed daughter of the South!

Had priest or prophet ever heard her singing,
Or seen her, where the clover was in bloom,
Wading knee-deep, while larks were upward springing,
And winds could scarcely breathe for want of room —
Thus seen her from the dappled hillsides bringing
The cows home, in the sunset’s golden gloom,
Our good old Bible would have had much more
Of love and romance mixed with sacred lore.

What man is there who would not dare defend
A life like this? Is doing so a sin?
Or who should blush to be known as her friend?
White wonder of creation, fashioned in
The moulds of loveliness; kings might contend
On martial fields a prize like her to win,
And yet, the cabin’s hate and mansion’s scorn, —
She suffered both, betwixt them being born.

The mating bird upon the freest wing
That ever cleft the woodland’s joy-tuned air,
Should not be freer for her mate to sing,
Than woman should be, on her bosom fair —
Devotion’s home, to press love’s offering;
To pillow manly faith and shrine him there.
Thus pure and free, love born of God is real,
Is soul companioning its best ideal.

When genial Spring first hears the mating thrush,
Where waters gossip and the wild flowers throng,
Love rears her altar in the leafy bush,
And Nature chants the sweetest bridal-song.
When love is free, with madness in its rush,
Its very strength defends the heart from wrong.
Love, when untutored, walks a harmless way,
With feet, though bare, that never go astray.

The hedges may obscure the sweetest bloom, —
The orphan of the waste, — the lowly flower;
While in the garden, faint for want of room,
The splendid failure pines within her bower.
There is a wide republic of perfume,
In which the nameless waifs of sun and shower,
That scatter wildly through the fields and woods,
Make the divineness of the solitudes.

But marriage is Love’s Heaven, none the less;
And ceremony is a happy thing.
And beautiful are all the offices
Of our religion. When fair virgins sing,
The organ peals, and symphonies of dress
And flowers before the altar stir, — which Spring
Has been despoiled of bloom to decorate, —
Then marriage truly ‘s a divine estate!

That is, if love be in it. If the heart
That throbs and trusts beneath its clouds of lace,
Be innocent of the dissembler’s art,
If there be inwardness in Love’s embrace;
If on Life’s voyage true lovers make the start,
And each soul’s compass is the other’s face;
Then there’s a Wedding, that sweet union made,
Which “none may sunder,” as it hath been said.

But music, lace and flowers, with altar, priest
And prayers, have never made a wedding, — nay,
Nor ever will! I would not say the least
Against religion, — would not break away
From her restraints; nor have doubt in my breast
That there is good which comes to those who pray;
But it hath been since earth first saw the sun, —
No power but love can ever make twain one.

O, Earth, Sea, Stars and boundless realms of air!
What were ye all had not dear woman come
To make man put on clothes and trim his hair.
The wide world would have been without a home
In all its shades, and thistles of despair
Would have sprung up where naked feet must roam!
But woman came, thank Heaven! — Earth’s noblest creature
And woman’s love lights every human feature.

O Love! thou sweetest influence of the soul, —
First-born of Heaven and earth, — thou all-divine,
I bless, I worship thee! Thou dost control
All thrones of Light, — all realms of song and shine;
And shouldst thou empty forth and send thy whole
Bright colonies from those high worlds of thine,
They all could not eclipse one loving woman,
In frailty so delightful, since so human.

At early morn the old plantation stirred,
And toil went humming in its usual way,
While heart-born shouts in all directions heard,
Were earnest signals of a busy day.
Then Maury’s father with a friend conferred;
And calling up a house boy, turned to say,
With nimble speech and glibbest unconcern:
“Bring out the wagon. Quick! Let’s see you turn.”

The patient blacks, — those children of the sun,
Were singing; in the distance you could hear
Their song-bursts as if angels had begun
To fill the clouds; now sang they loud and clear,
And now the low refrain would break and run
Beneath the deep’ning shadows far and near,
Throughout the cypress groves along the shore,
Where aspect weird the Southern landscape bore.

Ribbons of sunshine long and delicate,
Were spun out through the mosses on the trees;
And in the depths a spirit seemed to wait;
A breath of awe hung on the lazy breeze;
And as the wagon left the mansion gate
At speed, a deep suspense the girl’s heart seized;
But there was naught explained, though much was said,
That round the truth through hidden meanings led.

Oh, Innocence, and must it ever be
That violence for thee in wait shall lie?
Since beauty is a snare, a net to thee,
Spread for thy feet, an exile must she die,
Whose crime is love? Oh, hath not Charity
A plea for her that will be heard on high?
Nay, Lena must depart, and can not know
What fate compels, nor why she thus must go.

The wagon reached the town. Hanks was on hand, —
He always was on hand when deeds like this
Were to be done. He had at his command,
The roads that to the mountains led, and his
Proud boast was that he “could at all times land
His expeditions, and not go amiss,”
And, it must be confessed by all, that he
Made good his boast, and never lost a fee.

Toward distant hills now Hanks was soon away
With Lena; still she knew not where she went.
Her surly escort had no word to say;
But kept his ugly eyes before him bent,
While glances from their depths of cruel gray,
Such chills of fear through Lena’s being sent
That she dared not risk one inquiring look;
But feigned good heart, though she with terror shook.

She even strove to force a pleasant smile,
When Hanks once turned to touch her bloodless cheeks
As rough as sea foam though his face the while,
The poor girl thought that she could see faint streaks
Of kindness showing from beneath the pile
Of human rubbish which this fact bespeaks;
The light of soul in woman’s eyes expressed
Will conquer man, — will brutal force arrest.

In striving to be gallant, Hanks was coarse;
He moved his hands as “Bruin” moves his feet,
His whispers low but made his words more hoarse,
As waves sound harsher that in dark caves beat.
So burly an excrescence of uncouth force,
He still had heart, and Lena’s accents sweet
Had touched him. She was gentle, proud, but pretty;
And admiration stilled the voice of pity.

I’ve read of Daniel being with lions penned;
And I have heard the legend of a cage
Of wild beasts that would not a virgin rend,
Who was cast in; but, in this prosy age,
When wealth replaces angels as man’s friend,
When gods and miracles have quit the stage,
It should be treasured in undying song,
That Hanks said: “Lena, you’ve been treated wrong.”

And then he held and stroked her trembling hand,
And patted it, upon his rugged knee.
The hours went by till Night had waved her wand
Of darkness o’er the world, and rock and tree
In darker forms, like giants, rose to stand
Along their way; but Lena’s heart beat free;
And nestling near her keeper, kind but coarse,
She felt no terrors from whatever source.

But times were stormy on the old plantation.
Ill news on eager wings had spread uproar:
The Negroes raised a mighty lamentation,
And went about the outrage to deplore.
“Lena was sold!” Ah! now was tribulation,
And Grief began a rain of tears to pour.
The master watched the storm that he had made;
But trusted that it soon would be allayed.

The old men muttered prayers and went about,
Or stood dejected, heeding naught, nor speaking.
Old women sobbed and moaned and then shrieked out, —
Outspoken anguish kept their hearts from breaking.
But braver spirits here and there would shout
Their imprecations upon “all de sneaking
Ole niggah buyers dis side ob de Devil!”
But strange to say, poor souls, they spoke no evil

Of their “ole Massa,” who had made the sale.
Well, such is life. We oft lose sight of cause,
And o’er effect set up a noisy wail;
Too oft oppose the gathering stream by laws;
When at the source wise actions should prevail.
But Lena’s master made of proud stuff was;
He vowed — the act if wrong, was his own doing, —
His way was his, and of his own pursuing.

And night came on. Earth-jarring thunders roared
And rolled afar. Behind the inky banks
The sun had sunk in terror. Up, up soared
The scurrying clouds and spread like serried ranks
With murky banners flying, — swirled and poured
Through lurid arches, — while demoniac pranks
The vivid lightnings cut and onward came,
Stabbing the darkness with their spears of flame.

Young Maury’s horse was saddled at the gate.
In vain the Negro servants with him plead;
His father called to him in vain to wait.
He waved all back and sternly shook his head.
“This night be the black herald of the fate
Which waits him who opposes me,” he said;
“And but for age and blood, my sire, I’d wreak
Swift vengeance on your head — but you are weak.”

With tears, his mother stayed him in the door;
He kissed her, passed, and at a single bound,
Into his saddle sprang. “By Heaven,” he swore,
“I’ll bring her back!” and wheeling short around,
His roweled heels against his horse he bore,
That forward sprang, and, flying, spurned the ground.
And through the dark, these words, impassioned, clear,
“I’ll bring her back,” fell on the listener’s ear.

And on, right onward toward the hills he shot;
On, on, and on; till, miles and miles away,
He drew his reins upon an abrupt spot,
Where rocks and fallen trees around him lay;
And o’er him rose a cliff, —