From mossy woods and cypress bolls [@3sic@1], The swimming snakes have sought their holes; On heavy wing the night-owl flits, With drooping head the vulture sits, And down the bayou's sultry tide I hear the stealthy cayman glide. I weary of these orange-blooms, And tuneless birds with gorgeous plumes, And white magnolia's sweet attaint, Whereof the honeyed air grows faint; I weary of this golden cane, This silvery cotton -- and this chain! The iron chain -- the rusted chain, That manacles each fruitful plain; That binds the woodland and the sward -- That binds the laborer and the lord! -- It wearies soul -- it wearies strength: I think it wearies Heaven, at length! Dear Heaven! this green and fertile mead -- These fields, that swell with pregnant seed; These orchards ripe and gardens rare, And sunlit skies and fragrant air; This broad domain that Freedom craves -- Why must it be the House of Slaves? The red oaks lift their vernal sheen -- The cypress waves in lustrous green; But underneath lies withering bark, Where creeps the swamp-moss, gray and stark, And chokes the sweet life where it hangs -- Fit type of Slavery's deathful fangs! I marvel oft, if shames distil From lands that nurse no rippling rill; If wrongs must still oppress these leas, Because they feel no upland breeze; If slaves must breed in swamp and fen, While hill-tops suckle freeborn men! No, Freedom! no! -- thy generous veins Can flood with life these sluggish plains; Thy breath, that lifts our flags to God, Shall quicken all this servile sod: All dead things shall thy voice obey, And rise, like Lazarus, from decay! From Texas and to Hampshire snow, Five hundred thousand bayonets glow! I cannot think these Northern knives Can e'er be forged to Southern gyves; Or they that wield them -- freeborn men -- Will build the House of Slaves again! I draw my sword, and poise the blade -- I feel no manly strength decayed: I swing it through yon palmy sedge -- It smites -- it bites -- with warlike edge! It cuts as well -- this freedom-brand -- In Southern as in Northern land! I kiss my sword, and gripe [@3sic@1] the hilt -- I think of blood for Union spilt: Beneath my flag of stars I stand -- I lift this steel blade in my hand, And swear that all this land is free! -- O God! break not mine oath for me! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NO SONGS IN WINTER by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 48. AL-WADOOD by EDWIN ARNOLD SONNET FROM JAPAN: 2. THE SHRINE OF THE PILGRIM SANDALS by ADELAIDE NICHOLS BAKER THE WIND AND THE WHIRLWIND by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE PILGRIM by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH ON THE FALL OF ZALONA by EMILY JANE BRONTE |