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The Freedmen of the Mississippi Valley
Wakeful I think upon the suffering race,That, fled from bondage, claim our fostering care;
What tongue their want can tell, or pen can trace,
Or who the story of their woes could bear?
The mother with her child, the aged one,
Now unprotected from the wintry blast;
Soon, soon for them the winter will be gone,
Soon, without aid, their sufferings here be past!
Help, till the storms of winter shall be o'er,
When their own hands abundance will supply;
Give all thou canst, food, raiment, from thy store,
Nor aught thou hast these suffering ones deny;
368
Should find but graves in Freedom's fair domain.
Poem No. 757; c. 26 December 1863
| Jones Very : The Complete Poems | |