He did not feel the driver's whip, For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, A worn-out fetter, that the soul THE GOOD PART, THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. SHE dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, Her soul, like the transparent air And thus she walks among her girls With praise and mild rebukes; Subduing e'en rude village churls By her angelic looks. She reads to them at eventide Of One who came to save; To cast the captive's chains aside, And oft the blessed time foretells Their falling chains shall be. And following her beloved Lord, She makes her life one sweet record For she was rich, and gave up all Of those who waited in her hall, Long since beyond the Southern Sea It is their prayers, which never cease, THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp The hunted Negro lay; He saw the fire of the midnight camp, And heard at times a horse's tramp Where will-o'-the-wisps and glowworms shine, Where waving mosses shroud the pine, Where hardly a human foot could pass On the quaking turf of the green morass A poor old slave, infirm and lame; Great scars deformed his face ; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, All things above were bright and fair, On him alone was the doom of pain, On him alone the curse of Cain Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, |