But at his desk he had the look And air of one who wisely schemed

And hostage from the future took

In trained thought and lore of book.
Large-brained, clear-eyed-of such as he
Shall Freedom's young apostles be,
Who, following in War's bloody trail,
Shall every lingering wrong assail:
All chains from limb and spirit strike,
Uplift the black and white alike;
Scatter before their swift advance

The darkness and the ignorance,

The pride, the lust, the squalid sloth,

Which nurtured Treason's monstrous growth,

Made murder pastime, and the hell

Of prison-torture possible;

The cruel lie of caste refute,

Old forms recast, and substitute

For Slavery's lash the freeman's will,

For blind routine, wise-handed skill;
A school-house plant on every hill,
Stretching in radiate nerve-lines thence
The quick wires of intelligence;

Till North and South, together brought,

Shall own the same electric thought,

Flashed back from lustrous eyes the light.

Unmarked by time, and yet not young,

The honeyed music of her tongue

And words of meekness scarcely told

A nature passionate and bold,

515

Strong, self-concentred, spurning guide,

Its milder features dwarfed beside

Her unbent will's majestic pride.
She sat among us, at the best,
A not unfeared, half-welcome guest,
Rebuking with her cultured phrase

520

Where'er her troubled path may be,
The Lord's sweet pity with her go!
The outward wayward life we see,

The hidden springs we may not know;
Nor is it given us to discern

What threads the fatal sisters spun,
Through what ancestral years has run
The sorrow with the woman born,
What forged her cruel chain of moods,
What set her feet in solitudes,

And held the love within her mute,
What mingled madness in the blood,
A life-long discord and annoy,
Water of tears with oil of joy,
And hid within the folded bud

Perversities of flower and fruit.

It is not ours to separate

The tangled skein of will and fate,

To show what metes and bounds should stand

Upon the soul's debatable land,

And between choice and Providence

Divide the circle of events;

But He who knows our frame is just,

Merciful and compassionate,

And full of sweet assurances

And hope for all the language is

That He remembereth we are dust!

At last the great logs, crumbling low,

Sent out a dull and duller glow;

The bull's-eye watch that hung in view,

Ticking its weary circuit through,
Pointed with mutely-warning sign

Its black hand to the hour of nine.
That sign the pleasant circle broke:
My uncle ceased his pipe to smoke,

595

600

The work aside, her steps she stayed
One moment, seeking to express
Her grateful sense of happiness

605

For food and shelter, warmth and health,

And love's contentment more than wealth,
With simple wishes (not the weak,
Vain prayers which no fulfilment seek,
But such as warm the generous heart,
O'èr-prompt to do with Heaven its part)
That none might lack, that bitter night,
For bread and clothing, warmth and light.
Within our beds awhile we heard
The wind that round the gables roared,
With now and then a ruder shock,
Which made our very bedsteads rock;
We heard the loosened clapboards tost,
The board-nails snapping in the frost;
And on us, through the unplastered wall,
Felt the light-sifted snow-flakes fall.
But sleep stole on, as sleep will do
When hearts are light and life is new;
Faint and more faint the murmurs grew,
Till in the summer-land of dreams

They softened to the sound of streams,

Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars,

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615

620

625

Then toiled again the cavalcade

O'er windy hill, through clogged ravine, And woodland paths that wound between Low drooping pine-boughs winter-weighed. From every barn a team afoot;

At every house a new recruit,

Where, drawn by Nature's subtlest law,
Haply the watchful young men saw
Sweet doorway pictures of the curls
And curious eyes of merry girls,
Lifting their hands in mock defence
Against the snow-ball's compliments,
And reading in each missive tost

650

655