Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE HOUSE OF BONDAGE, by AUGUSTINE JOSEPH HICKEY DUGANNE


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE HOUSE OF BONDAGE, by                    
First Line: From mossy woods and cypress bolls
Last Line: O god! Break not mine oath for me!
Subject(s): American Civil War; Emancipation Movement & Proclamation; Freedom; United States - History; Antislavery Movement - United States; Liberty


From mossy woods and cypress bolls [sic],
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 [sic] 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!





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