 | I. |
| II. |
 | III. |
|
|
|
|
|
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
THE IRISH SLAVE IN BARBADOES.
Beside our shieling spread an oak,
Close by, a beech, its brother:
Between them rose the pale blue smoke;
They mingled each with other.
Close by, a beech, its brother:
Between them rose the pale blue smoke;
They mingled each with other.
The gold mead stretched before our door
Beyond the church-tower taper;
The river wound into the moor
In distance lost and vapour.
Beyond the church-tower taper;
The river wound into the moor
In distance lost and vapour.
Amid green hazels, cradle-swung,
Our babe with rapture dancing,
Watched furry shapes the roots among,
With beaded eyes forth glancing.
Our babe with rapture dancing,
Watched furry shapes the roots among,
With beaded eyes forth glancing.
114
Ah, years of blessing! Rich no more
Yet grateful and contented,
The lands that Stafford from us tore
No longer we lamented.
Yet grateful and contented,
The lands that Stafford from us tore
No longer we lamented.
So fared it till that night of woe
When, from the mountains blaring,
The deep horns rang ‘The foe, the foe!’
And fires were round us glaring.
When, from the mountains blaring,
The deep horns rang ‘The foe, the foe!’
And fires were round us glaring.
He went: next day our hearth was cold,
Then came that week of slaughter:—
I woke within the ship's black hold
And heard the rushing water.
Then came that week of slaughter:—
I woke within the ship's black hold
And heard the rushing water.
Ah! those that seemed our life can die
Yet we live on and wither!
Fling out thy fires, thou Indian sky:
Toss all thy torches hither!
Yet we live on and wither!
Fling out thy fires, thou Indian sky:
Toss all thy torches hither!
Send, salt morass and swamps of cane
Send forth your ambushed fever!
O death, unstrain at last my chain
And bid me rest for ever!
Send forth your ambushed fever!
O death, unstrain at last my chain
And bid me rest for ever!
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |