For she was rich, and gave up all To break the iron bands Of those who waited in her hall, Long since beyond the Southern Sea While she, in meek humility, It is their prayers, which never cease, Their blessing is the light of peace THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp The hunted Negro lay; He saw the fire of the midnight camp, Where will-o'-the-wisps and glowworms shine, In bulrush and in brake; Where waving mosses shroud the pine, And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine Is spotted like the snake; Where hardly a human foot could pass, Or a human heart would dare, On the quaking turf of the green morass He crouched in the rank and tangled grass, Like a wild beast in his lair. A poor old slave, infirm and lame; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, All things above were bright and fair, |