Great Poems by American Women (8 page)

Very soon the Yankee teachers

Came down and set up school;

But, oh! how the Rebs did hate it,—

It was agin' their rule.

 

Our masters always tried to hide

Book learning from our eyes;

Knowledge did'nt agree with slavery—

'Twould make us all too wise.

 

But some of us would try to steal

A little from the book,

And put the words together,

And learn by hook or crook.

 

I remember Uncle Caldwell,

Who took pot liquor fat

And greased the pages of his book,

And hid it in his hat.

 

And had his master ever seen

The leaves upon his head,

He'd have thought them greasy papers,

But nothing to be read.

 

And there was Mr. Turner's Ben,

Who heard the children spell,

And picked the words right up by heart,

And learned to read 'em well.

 

Well, the Northern folks kept sending

The Yankee teachers down;

And they stood right up and helped us,

Though Rebs did sneer and frown.

 

And I longed to read my Bible,

For precious words it said;

But when I begun to learn it,

Folks just shook their heads,

 

And said there is no use trying,

Oh! Chloe, you're too late;

But as I was rising sixty,

I had no time to wait.

 

So I got a pair of glasses,

And straight to work I went,

And never stopped till I could read

The hymns and Testament.

 

Then I got a little cabin

A place to call my own—

And I felt as independent

As the queen upon her throne.

Heard you that shriek? It rose

So wildly on the air,

It seem'd as if a burden'd heart

Was breaking in despair.

 

Saw you those hands so sadly clasped—

The bowed and feeble head—

The shuddering of that fragile form—

That look of grief and dread?

 

Saw you the sad, imploring eye?

Its every glance was pain,

As if a storm of agony

Were sweeping through the brain.

 

She is a mother pale with fear,

Her boy clings to her side,

And in her kyrtle vainly tries

His trembling form to hide.

 

He is not hers, although she bore

For him a mother's pains;

He is not hers, although her blood

Is coursing through his veins!

 

He is not hers, for cruel hands

May rudely tear apart

The only wreath of household love

That binds her breaking heart.

The sale began—young girls were there,

Defenceless in their wretchedness,

Whose stifled sobs of deep despair

Revealed their anguish and distress.

 

And mothers stood, with streaming eyes,

And saw their dearest children sold;

Unheeded rose their bitter cries,

While tyrants barter'd them for gold.

 

And woman, with her love and truth—

For these in sable forms may dwell—

Gaz'd on the husband of her youth,

With anguish none may paint or tell.

 

And men, whose sole crime was their hue,

The impress of their Maker's hand,

And frail and shrinking children too,

Were gathered in that mournful band.

 

Ye who have laid your lov'd to rest,

And wept above their lifeless clay,

Know not the anguish of that breast,

Whose lov'd are rudely torn away.

 

Ye may not know how desolate

Are bosoms rudely forced to part,

And how a dull and heavy weight

Will press the life-drops from the heart.

Do you blame me that I loved him?

If when standing all alone

I cried for bread, a careless world

Pressed to my lips a stone?

 

Do you blame me that I loved him,

That my heart beat glad and free,

When he told me in the sweetest tones

He loved but only me?

 

Can you blame me that I did not see,

Beneath his burning kiss,

The serpent's wiles, nor even less hear

The deadly adder hiss?

 

Can you blame me that my heart grew cold,

That the tempted, tempter turned—

When he was feted and caressed

And I was coldly spurned?

 

Would you blame him, when you drew from me

Your dainty robes aside,

If he with gilded baits should claim

Your fairest as his bride?

 

Would you blame the world if it should press

On him a civic crown;

And see me struggling in the depth,

Then harshly press me down?

 

Crime has no sex and yet today

I wear the brand of shame;

Whilst he amid the gay and proud

Still bears an honored name.

 

Can you blame me if I've learned to think

Your hate of vice a sham,

When you so coldly crushed me down,

And then excused the man?

 

Yes, blame me for my downward course,

But oh! remember well,

Within your homes you press the hand

That led me down to hell!

 

I'm glad God's ways are not your ways,

He does not see as man;

Within his love I know there's room

For those whom others ban.

 

I think before His great white throne,

His theme of spotless light,

That whited sepulchres shall wear

The hue of endless night.

 

That I who fell, and he who sinned,

Shall reap as we have sown;

That each the burden of his loss

Must bear and bear alone.

 

No golden weights can turn the scale

Of justice in His sight;

And what is wrong in woman's life

In man's cannot be right.

How say that by law we may torture and chase
A woman whose crime is the hue of her face?—
With her step on the ice, and her arm on her child,
The danger was fearful, the pathway was wild....
But she's free! yes, free from the land where the slave,
From the hand of oppression, must rest in the grave;
Where bondage and blood, where scourges and chains,
Have placed on our banner indelible stains....
The bloodhounds have miss'd the scent of her way,
The hunter is rifled and foiled of his prey,
The cursing of men and clanking of chains
Make sounds of strange discord on Liberty's plains....
Oh! poverty, danger and death she can brave,
For the child of her love is no longer a slave.

“All quiet along the Potomac,” they say,

“Except now and then a stray picket

Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro,

By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

'T is nothing: a private or two, now and then,

Will not count in the news of the battle;

Not an officer lost—only one of the men,

Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle.”

 

All quiet along the Potomac tonight,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;

Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,

Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping,

While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes,

Keep guard, for the army is sleeping.

 

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,

And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed

Far away in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim,

Grows gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep—

For their mother—may Heaven defend her!

 

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,

That night, when the love yet unspoken

Leaped up to his lips—when low-murmured vows

Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,

He dashes off tears that are welling,

And gathers his gun closer up to its place

As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

 

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree;

The footstep is lagging and weary;

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,

Towards the shade of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?

Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?

It looked like a rifle . . . “Ha! Mary, good by!”

The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

 

All quiet along the Potomac tonight—

No sound save the rush of the river,

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead—

The picket's off duty forever!

Fasten the chamber!
Hide the red key;
Cover the portal,
That eyes may not see.
Get thee to market,
To wedding and prayer;
Labor or revel,
The chamber is there!

 

In comes a stranger—
“Thy pictures how fine,
Titian or Guido,
Whose is the sign?”
Looks he behind them?
Ah! have a care!
“Here is a finer.”
The chamber is there!

 

Fair spreads the banquet,
Rich the array;
See the bright torches
Mimicking day;
When harp and viol
Thrill the soft air,
Comes a light whisper:
The chamber is there!

 

Marble and painting,
Jasper and gold,
Purple from Tyrus,
Fold upon fold,
Blossoms and jewels,
Thy palace prepare:
Pale grows the monarch;
The chamber is there!

 

Once it was open
As shore to the sea;
White were the turrets,
Goodly to see;
All through the casements
Flowed the sweet air;
Now it is darkness;
The chamber is there!

 

Silence and horror
Brood on the walls;
Through every crevice
A little voice calls:
“Quicken, mad footsteps,
On pavement and stair;
Look not behind thee,
The chamber is there!”

 

Out of the gateway,
Through the wide world,
Into the tempest
Beaten and hurled,
Vain is thy wandering,
Sure thy despair,
Flying or staying,
The chamber is there!

It sings to me in sunshine,
It whispers all day long,
My heartache like an echo
Repeats the wistful song:
Only a quaint old love-lilt,
Wherein my life is hid,—
“My body is in Segovia,
But my soul is in Madrid!”

 

I dream, and wake, and wonder,
For dream and day are one,
Alight with vanished faces,
And days forever done.
They smile and shine around me
As long ago they did;
For my body is in Segovia,
But my soul is in Madrid!

 

Through inland hills and forests
I hear the ocean breeze,
The creak of straining cordage,
The rush of mighty seas,
The lift of angry billows
Through which a swift keel slid;
For my body is in Segovia,
But my soul is in Madrid.

 

O fair-haired little darlings
Who bore my heart away!
A wide and woful ocean
Between us roars to-day;
Yet am I close beside you
Though time and space forbid;
My body is in Segovia,
But my soul is in Madrid.

 

If I were once in heaven,
There would be no more sea;
My heart would cease to wander,
My sorrows cease to be;
My sad eyes sleep forever,
In dust and daisies hid,
And my body leave Segovia.
—Would my soul forget Madrid?