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
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