The arrogance of scepter'd beauty, queens In all but coronets! What gentleness!
What dignity! What poise of mind! What charm Of person! What serenity of soul!
The velvet manners of the old regime,
Elizabethan all, aye, to the core,
Came down from Warwick and from Kenilworth, Were redolent of proud ancestral seats
In Merrie England-of nobilities—
Of dukedoms-hark'd to Norman tournaments And hinted softly of baronial halls
Beyond the seas. But gone-that era-gone!
Did some magician give thee speech, O, mount, What couldst thou tell us of plantation days- But faded memories now-when Uncle Ned, Perch'd on the shuck-pile, with his fiddle rude, Pour'd oratorios into listening ears,
Like Orpheus mounted on Olympia's hill!— When Christmas came, with festive wreaths of green To bid the quarters take a rest from toil- When Yule-tide's edict loos'd the fetter'd limbs, And all the bondsmen for the time were free!- When, war-clouds hovering over Dixie-land, The Black Knight, to his charge still gently true, Kept ward and watch o'er helpless hearts at home, While at the front his absent master fought
To keep him shackl'd! Finer chivalry
Ne'er flashed from England's shield, when knights in mail, Grappl'd, like lions, in the laurel'd lists;
Nor when the Black Prince, o'er his Celtic foe,
Stood victor upon Crecy's conquer'd field!
What couldst thou tell us of that type of types- God rest her soul in everlasting peace!- The old Black Mammy! Worthy she, ten-fold,
Of marble's whitest monument, who croon'd Our mothers into sleep-the fleur de lis
Of Anglo-Saxon stock!-in sable arms
Held them to tender hearts-lull'd them to rest With lullabies unknown to other lands, Which, will'd to fairer lips, in later years, Were destin'd to become our cradle songs. The old Black Mammy! Ah, her ebon face, Beaming upon me now from Memory's wall, Wakes tender recollections, gilds anew
Dim yesterdays, rare pictures old and sweet, And round me weaves a golden Long Ago. How, like an aureol'd saint, she meekly smiles, With head beturban'd-aye, a saint, indeed, Now halo'd in the skies!
Childhood's true friend!
Lov'd patron saint of Dixie's old regime!
Nurse of our conquering race! Though but a slave, Worthy her smile of some old master's brush,
To live in Art's proud temple, aye, at Rome, Beneath an Angelo's undying arch,
To hang with Raphael's immortal dreams.
The tuneful song-bird of the Southern fields! Was he contented? When did labor's lungs, With lighter carols ever wake the larks, With sweeter bugles ever charm the skies, Than did the negro's old-time melodies? If he were sick, the doctor always came, If he were cold, the fire always burn'd, If he were hungry, there was food to spare, If he were thirsty, fountains never fail'd. The Southern planter of the old slave days! Critics have charg'd that he was indolent That he was brutal, that, with whips, he drove His slaves to work, as did the Spartan chief
His helots. But the charge is foully false, It carries with it not one grain of truth, And if we let this lying cheat go by us, Methinks 'tis time to aureole Ananias. "Twas to the master's interest to protect The property whose labor brought him gain. Slave-drivers sometimes drew a galling lash. Brutal sometimes were overseers-harsh— But these were seldom of the South; they came From frosty latitudes, from boreal climes
Of lingering twilights, from the zone of thought Sacred to wisdom's holy oracles-
And where the conscience of the land was kept! Libels upon the States from which they sprang,- These ruffians,-better train'd to fell an ox Than, 'mid the battle's fire, to wield a sword. These held the whip whose sting the bondsman felt; Unkindness came not from the master's hand,
Save in the rarest instances, but deeds Of kindness did, to wax an hundred fold.
Far greater ills there be than slavery Such as an Old South knew in days of yore. 'Twas servitude, but gentle; of the kind Whose softer name was freedom; better far An easy yoke of service than a crown Whose weight of splendor crushes; better far A slave of slaves, by happiness made free, Than freedom fetter'd with a thousand gyves Which slavery's softer bondage did not feel- Than liberty, from whose encumbering chains Of care, there's no emancipation!
No lynchings then! no labor strikes to quell; No insurrections, riots, nameless crimes, Till carpet-baggers came to steal the hearts
Which erst were ours;-with falsehood's Judas-tongue Beguiling innocence, as once of old
A serpent did, till Eden's bower was lost And, in the dust, he crawl'd from Paradise Accurst of God, and loath'd of all mankind.
Gone is the Old South now. It sleeps the sleep Of Lee's untarnished sword. Its dreams are dead- Commingling with the dust of golden hearts, In many a bivouac. It sleeps the sleep
Of Memory's night, whose high and holy lamps Are the eternal stars. Nor is it ours To wish it back. But, wafted down the years, Its perfume haunts us, like a lingering hint Of Summer's wither'd garden; like a sigh From Memory's rose-jar of forget-me-nots! Sweeter than spikenard, when at Bethany It cool'd the gentle Master's weary feet. Sweeter than myrrh, when, o'er the desert's dust, The spic'd wind cometh from Arabia.
We'll hide its crumbling ruins with ivy green We'll deck its moldering dust with April's bloom. Around our hearts, we'll twine, till life is done, Its glorious recollections; and, unharm'd Here, in the bosom's core, we'll keep it hid, As Aaron kept of old the manna pot,
In Israel's golden Ark. Good bye, Old South, Good-bye. We miss thee sadly when we wake To weep, but meet thee fondly when we dream!
YPE of the old-time Southern home, where dwelt
Th' immortal Commoner. Still art thou spar'd,
Though other shrines are dust. Still o'er thee bend The whispering emeralds, as in other days.
'Tis he who comes no more! Still swinging wide To greet the welcome guest, thy breezy door. Still reminiscent of an old regime,
Thy genial fireside cheer, thy world of books, Thy inmost vaults unbarr'd, as free to all As when the master of the mansion here Dispens'd its hospitality. Still chants The feather'd minstrel from his choir-loft Among the trees. But all in vain we look For him whose genius cast a wizard's spell Upon our commonwealth. We sadly miss That wan, sweet face. Gone, too, that roller chair. That crutch has disappear'd. That bugle voice That echo'd like the horn of Roderick Dhu Among the highland hills-that siren tongue With which he charm'd us in the vanish'd years- Is dumb in death's deep silence, which, alas, Not e'en his country's call can ever break.
The Southland's seer and sage! In this dark hour When paths perplex, when puzzling mists of doubt Obscure the landmarks, when men vaguely speak In Hindoo riddles which we cannot guess- Deal in enigmas which they leave unsolv'd; When reason reels, when groping multitudes Halt in the shadows; when the nation's peace
« ForrigeFortsæt » |