 | Echoes of Spring |  |
44
A DESERTED HOMESTEAD.
Far down in the land of old Dixie,
Where cane-brake and cotton-fields grow,
I saw there, a large plantation;
Which flourished long years ago:
The cabins, they were deserted,
The fences, all tumbled down,
All things about me were silent,
The slaves had deserted, and gone.
Where cane-brake and cotton-fields grow,
I saw there, a large plantation;
Which flourished long years ago:
The cabins, they were deserted,
The fences, all tumbled down,
All things about me were silent,
The slaves had deserted, and gone.
As I looked at those rude built cabins,
On that sad deserted spot,
I thought of my old forefathers,
And there humble, bitter, lot:
I gazed at the large old homestead,
On her vine clad ruined walls;
It roused within a strange feeling,
Like the sight of some dead man's pall.
On that sad deserted spot,
I thought of my old forefathers,
And there humble, bitter, lot:
I gazed at the large old homestead,
On her vine clad ruined walls;
It roused within a strange feeling,
Like the sight of some dead man's pall.
While I passed through the broken down portals,
And entered the large, spacious, halls,
The old doors squeaked on their hinges,
And saffron stained were the walls:
Far up in the dreary old attic,
As the winds of autumn did moan,
I thought I could hear a pleading voice,
Like a bondmaid's helpless groan.
As I entered the large old parlor,
Once flourished with southorn grace,
Where oft sat the rich old planter,
In wealth by that large fireplace,
I saw no trace of existence,
Where mortals lately had been;
The drifting of time had banished her prime,
And now, shone the wages of sin.
And entered the large, spacious, halls,
The old doors squeaked on their hinges,
And saffron stained were the walls:
45
As the winds of autumn did moan,
I thought I could hear a pleading voice,
Like a bondmaid's helpless groan.
As I entered the large old parlor,
Once flourished with southorn grace,
Where oft sat the rich old planter,
In wealth by that large fireplace,
I saw no trace of existence,
Where mortals lately had been;
The drifting of time had banished her prime,
And now, shone the wages of sin.
For the power of that wicked old planter
Who once bound my fathers in chain,
Had been quelled by the hand of Jehovah;
Been severed and broken in twain:
In that fierce battle fought at old Shiloh,
By death-shots from Northern guns,
There fell four bodies all mangled;
It was the old planter and sons;
They have yielded to dust in the churchyard,
The mother and daughter lies there;
And the broken down house all deserted,
Is now standing silent and bare.
Who once bound my fathers in chain,
Had been quelled by the hand of Jehovah;
Been severed and broken in twain:
In that fierce battle fought at old Shiloh,
By death-shots from Northern guns,
There fell four bodies all mangled;
It was the old planter and sons;
They have yielded to dust in the churchyard,
The mother and daughter lies there;
And the broken down house all deserted,
Is now standing silent and bare.
46
The swallow had built in the chimneys,
The wren had built in the wall,
Through tangled vines and tall grasses,
The venomous serpent crawls:
The fields in which grew the white cotton,
Where the poor black slaves used to hoe,
Long since they have turned to a fallow;
There the birch and the cotton-wood grow:
'Twas the Lord who tore down that dwelling.
And checked that old planter's reign;
Each slave, He unyoked from their bondage;
And bad them to shake off their chain.
The wren had built in the wall,
Through tangled vines and tall grasses,
The venomous serpent crawls:
The fields in which grew the white cotton,
Where the poor black slaves used to hoe,
Long since they have turned to a fallow;
There the birch and the cotton-wood grow:
'Twas the Lord who tore down that dwelling.
And checked that old planter's reign;
Each slave, He unyoked from their bondage;
And bad them to shake off their chain.
How could I look on with compassion,
And mourn o'er the planter's lost,
'Twas a just return for his vile, vile, deeds;
And his life-blood and wealth paid the cost:
And leaving the scenes far behind me,
I returned from that dreary old place,
Whose grandure and splendor had faded,
The pages of wealth all erased.
And mourn o'er the planter's lost,
'Twas a just return for his vile, vile, deeds;
And his life-blood and wealth paid the cost:
And leaving the scenes far behind me,
I returned from that dreary old place,
Whose grandure and splendor had faded,
The pages of wealth all erased.
| Echoes of Spring | |