Women must weep :: :: University of Virginia Library

There's a far, far land,
And yet it is as near
As the waving of a hand,
Or the dropping of a tear,
When the tempest talks in fear,
And the winds in wonder stand;
Ah, with language clear,
Though you cannot hear,
It would tell of prisoner's galling band,
And the shadow of a shameful brand,
With the secrets whisper'd in the ear,
As they fall like curses that command,
Upon bosoms all unfree;
And this is the Black Countree.

There's a lone, lone place,
And yet it is as pent
As the dungeon's evil space,
With its captives bound and blent,
In their iron sorrow bent,
But it hath no friendly face;

And with spirit spent,
Through the ghastly rent
Of the ragged wall that lichens lace,
And the moulds that leave a leprous trace,
For the voice not theirs they hark intent,
And the vision they may not embrace
They would look, who never see;
And this is the Black Countree.

There's a dark, dark spot,
And yet within the sun,
Of which midnight is the lot,
Though the founts of glory run,
If they only blast or shun
The poor court or filthy cot;
And the oaths that stun,
As in devil's fun,
Go from children's lips and lives they blot,
Where the weeds of vileness rest and rot,
And love is a tale to be begun,
When the endless hate that reigns is not,
While the clouds arise and flee;
And this is the Black Countree.

There's a grim, grim fold,
Where the forms are ever black,
And the fences sternly hold,
Though they tumbled lie in wrack;
And no footstep issues back,
Which has trod those pastures old;
Not an outward track
From the hideous lack,
Though the paths be paved with miry gold,
Nor warmth where the bosoms all are cold,
Nor speed when the kindly arm is slack,
And no help if vice alone is bold;
Hangs dead leaf on dead tree,
And this is the Black Countree.

There's a sad, sad bound,
And yet it open lies;
For but sighing is the sound,
And the teardrop never dries,
And beneath the brazen skies
They must tramp the dreary round;
And with staring eyes,
From which promise flies,
Must the victim toil, hunted and hound,
Over haunted, hopeless, corpse-strewn ground,
To the doom, foreseen, till he drops and dies,
And the shovel heaps up one more mound;
For the rocks are on the lee,
And this is the Black Countree.