LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 Shelf,.L£Jj S 7 
 Vi3^ 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
THE 
 
 STORY OF PORTUS 
 
 AND 
 
 Songs of the Southland 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY 
 
 H. LEONARD ^^Okp^ZZ^^ 
 
 BUFFALO 
 
 CHARLES WELLS MOULTON 
 1894 
 

 Copyright, 1894, 
 By MARY H. LEONARD. 
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 CHARLES WELLS MOULTON, 
 Buffalo, N. Y. 
 
TO 
 
 MY FELL O W- TEA CHERS 
 
 AND 
 
 FRIENDS IN SOUTH CAROLINA 
 
 THIS BOOK IS 
 
 AFFECTIONA TEL Y INSCRIBED 
 
 BY 
 
 THE A UTHOR. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 The Story of Portus. 9 
 
 Lines to a Friend 65 
 
 Songs of the South 69 
 
 Chevalier's Song. 69 
 
 The Younger South 70 
 
 Black Man's Song 71 
 
 " Sandhillers " 72 
 
 Jefferson Davis, December iith, 1889. 73 
 
 Henry W. Grady 75 
 
 Magnolia 77 
 
 A Song of Cotton 78 
 
 A Fatwood Fire 81 
 
 My Mocking-Bird 82 
 
 Hero-Worship 83 
 
 Denial 84 
 
 The Bride 85 
 
 Beauty's Service 85 
 
 Misunderstood 89 
 
 Perplexity 90 
 
 Appreciation 90 
 
 Answer 91 
 
 Fulfillment 92 
 
 The Legend of Ninety-Six 92 
 
 Christopher Gadsden 95 
 
 Sonnets of the Southland 99 
 
 Along the Congaree 104 
 
The Story of 
 
 PORTUS 
 
The Story Of Portus. 
 
 PRELUDE. 
 
 THE tale a gracious lady told, whose heart 
 Turns ever toward the haloed days, before 
 War's tempest breath convulsed the Southland 
 air, 
 O'er-turned brave hopes and shattered to the roots 
 The social system. True, the storm o'er-past, 
 The sky was clearer; yet some costly plants 
 Were crushed forever. 
 
 Many a such doth grieve 
 Both for her dead whose fruitless sacrifice 
 Stabbed living hearts with an undying pain, 
 And wofuller still for the resistless law 
 By which To-day effaces Yesterday. 
 Sitting among her shadows oft she speaks 
 With loving, lingering words of years whose joys 
 Loom large in ghostly memory now, whose griefs 
 By distance dimmed have lost their outlines keen. 
 And though one vaguely ask: "Were the former 
 
 days 
 Indeed so fair ? Were never mutterings heard 
 Of thunder-clouds that overspread the heaven 
 
lo THE STORY OF PORTUS. 
 
 And sent their deadly bolts to heart and home? " 
 Yet marvel not that this fond gende soul 
 Findeth in ruthless change no kindling glow 
 To renew the heart-fire of that earlier time. 
 
 Yet once in twilight confidence she sat 
 
 Beside the lightwood blaze whose flickering flame 
 
 Lighted the halls of memory, till she told 
 
 Into a listening ear in accents soft 
 
 This story of her girlhood; and revealed 
 
 That ev'n to eyes of sympathy, perchance, 
 
 The social system held a sombre side. 
 
 A simple tale, of stirring incident void; 
 
 Record of lowly lives by loftier swayed, 
 
 Of how the unyielding Way of things doth press 
 
 Too hard on here and there a suffering soul 
 
 Unbent to average lot, — a soul that chafes 
 
 Against the established order, as though born 
 
 For a later era, after tardy time 
 
 Shall bring displacement of the old ideals. 
 
 Systems may cruel be, though men are kind, 
 And not less cruel to the master power 
 Than to the subject. Both in coils are bound 
 Till fate shall free them. — Nay, I meant not fate. 
 That pagan despot. Our anointed eyes 
 Witness the coming of a holier realm 
 Before whose scepter systems warped must bow. 
 So Earth casts off old fetters: new-born thoughts 
 Rule the new world, and over all stands God; 
 
THE STORY OP PORTUS. ii 
 
 Resistless, hasting not, nor lagging, nay, 
 
 But working in His time His own decree. 
 
 Man doth his litde part, yet hath not power 
 
 Greatly to change or quicken. His to keep 
 
 The eye well open to the signal lights, 
 
 The ear attendve to the King's command, 
 
 And so direct his own small orderings. 
 
 That without friction or impeding, they 
 
 May find adjustment in the plan ordained. 
 
 His part so feeble ? Then, — 'twere trivial fault 
 
 To fail! O coward thought! — Himself 
 
 Unneeded, yet his traitorous life may fall 
 
 O'ertrodden by the triumphal march of truths 
 
 He feared to fight for. Was it Joshua's might 
 
 That levelled Jericho ? Yet had he failed 
 
 To blow the trump, then were his memory doomed. 
 
 But till the summons on the appointed day 
 
 No human purpose could avail one whit. 
 
 Thus on life's battlefield we wait in faith 
 And patience for the fulness of the time. 
 
 But pity for the souls too early born 
 For life's fulfilments! So I tell this tale. 
 
THE STORY OF PORTUS. 
 
 THE STORY OF PORTUS. 
 
 ON a fateful night in the century's earher half 
 A lawless barque with human chattels enladen 
 Sought landing with stealthy approach, on the 
 desolate coast 
 Of the Carolinas. Many a season had fled 
 Since the Christian world had vowed that Atlantic 
 
 seas 
 No longer should reek with the stain of the traffic 
 
 accurst; 
 So eluding the grasp of the law, on a shelterless shore 
 With night's black curtain its infamy blacker to 
 
 shield, 
 The slaver emptied its wreckage of stolen lives. 
 
 Fit scene for the hellish deed was the murky night: 
 No sound but the grating keel and monotonous 
 
 plash 
 Of the waves, and the plain of the night-bird's 
 
 iterate cry. 
 Grim trees enfettered tight by the tangled clutch 
 Of insidious vines overshadowed the vaporous marsh 
 By the turbid inlet, where sullen and silent the ship 
 Its outlaw commission fulfilled and hastened away 
 Under cover of darkness to deeds of piracy new. 
 
THE STORY OF TORTUS. 13 
 
 Among its victims there crouched an emaciate waif 
 Of a differing Afric tribe from the Gullah race 
 Whose sable descendants enpeople the rice-field 
 
 swamps 
 Of the tide-water district, his figure lithe, his cheek 
 Brown as the hazel whose nuts the Autumn hath 
 
 kissed. 
 Of royal lineage he. His warrior sire 
 Held tyrannous sway o'er a tribal kingdom, enriched 
 By savagery's primitive arts, while as yet exempt 
 From the white man's curses of rum and the slaver's 
 
 trade. 
 In the lap of the wilderness cradled, kind nature 
 
 his nurse, 
 His infant playmates the beasts of the jungle wild. 
 To a sturdy stature the child of the forest grew. 
 But alas! In an evil moment the boy with the king 
 Went forward to batde. His mother within her kraal 
 May mourn unceasingly now for her dusky son 
 In an enemy's toils a terrified prisoner held. 
 
 By leagues of weary marching the captives were led 
 Homesick and wretched and worn to the Western 
 
 Sea; 
 Then to white-faced fiends were sold, whose greed 
 
 for gain 
 Made mock at the hellish price. By night they 
 
 rowed 
 To a waiting vessel whose stifling hold made room 
 For the added victims. Becalmed in tropical seas 
 
14 THE STORY OF PORTUS, 
 
 Through four long weeks, amid starvation and filth 
 And the pangs of thirst, the crowded and sickening 
 
 ranks 
 By the merciful hand of death were speedily 
 
 thinned. 
 With fever consumed, the life of the slave-boy hung 
 On a tenuous thread. But at last a vessel of war 
 Gave chase to the lawless ship and a landing forced 
 In the hidden inlet. At once as the hold disgorged 
 Its sorrowful freight on the bosom of life-giving 
 
 Earth, 
 Nature recovered her own. In a purer air 
 Life's pulses were quickened, and unto the hapless 
 
 child 
 A kindlier prisonment dawned. 
 
 From the auction block 
 With its grim allotments of chance, the alien was 
 
 borne 
 Afar from the mists and the mire of the sea- coast 
 
 belt 
 To the sand-hill plantations where cotton with 
 
 clinging fleece 
 Whitens the summer with shearings of Nature's fold; 
 Where in shaded covert the mocking-bird warbles 
 
 aloud 
 Its choicest lays, and from their chalices pure. 
 The polished magnolias sweeten the springtime air 
 With perfume of incense. Here to a lordly estate 
 With sullen demeanor concealing a quivering pain. 
 
THE STORY OF PORTUS. 15 
 
 By the new-made master the kidnapped negro was 
 
 brought, 
 To meet his future mission and destiny fixed. 
 
 Strange the reversals of fate; from a savagery free 
 To restrictions of civiHzed Hfe in the chains of a 
 
 slave. 
 Was it the plot of a demon ? Or trace we the plan 
 Of a merciful Father who sought to succor a race 
 From a heritage pagan ? Silent we stand in amaze 
 As by light of the future illumined we turn to review 
 The pregnant occasions where once humanity stood, 
 Deaf to the issues that wait on a moment's decree, 
 Blind to the centres where pivot the crises of fate. 
 
 Calling from pastime his eldest, coequal in age 
 
 As in stature, the planter with gesture of kindly 
 
 command 
 Led forth the bewildered child, saying: *' Rudolph, 
 
 my son, 
 This boy is your vassal, your bidding henceforth is 
 
 his law, 
 Sole arbiter thou of his duties and discipline meet. 
 Yet in word and in action be kind. Let mercy be 
 
 throned 
 With justice its twin in thy governance ever. To 
 
 you 
 As its guardian this humbler nature in keeping is 
 
 given; 
 
i6 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 
 
 Then care for it well. Nor forget that here dwell- 
 
 eth a soul 
 To its Maker subject alone. To its welfare be true 
 And unto your servant, provider, protector, and 
 
 lord." 
 
 Around the slave-boy gathered the children at once 
 With eager inquiry of parentage, birthplace and 
 
 name. 
 With a faltering tongue the stranger attempted 
 
 reply, 
 But the African word with a barbarous accent fell 
 On the ears of the rest; and when to pronounce 
 
 it they tried 
 It sounded like Portus. " Portus, indeed, it shall 
 
 be," 
 Cried Rudolph. Thus was the name decreed. 
 
 These two 
 Master and servant, perforce, though children in 
 
 years 
 Entered that day into bonds of relationship fraught 
 With issues momentous to both. Unto which was 
 
 the tie 
 The more consequential? Who knoweth? To 
 
 each henceforth 
 Was the other increasingly needful. Where Ru- 
 dolph was found 
 There Portus followed him close; in his childish 
 plays 
 
THE STORY OF TORTUS. 17 
 
 Sharing with equal delight, or when manlier grown 
 Attending his rambles and bearing the gun and 
 
 the game 
 On obedient shoulder as homeward at evening they 
 
 fared. 
 His humble pallet at night the servant would lay 
 At the foot of his master's bed to be ready at dawn 
 For the morning tendance. To Portus the unused 
 
 toy 
 And the garment half- worn were bequeathed, and 
 
 when gifts and gains 
 To the master fell, for the favored slave was reserved 
 A generous share. ' Twas a strange and anomalous 
 
 lot; 
 Best friend and most cherished companion, ever 
 
 at hand 
 At Rudolph's desire, yet still to be signalled aside 
 Whensoever it pleasured his whim; but with 
 
 impulse reverse 
 To be promptly summoned again, for no other 
 
 could know 
 Like Portus, each wavering humor and wanton 
 
 caprice. 
 If so were his pleasure, the master might conqueror 
 
 be 
 In every contest. For what hath the menial to do 
 With rivalry equal ? Yet still it was trifling despite 
 To the chivalrous Rudolph not seldom to yield to 
 
 the slave 
 The fullest meed of the victor. The recognized 
 
 sense 
 
i8 THE STORY OF PORT US. 
 
 Of responsible lordship, the claims of the weak on 
 
 the strong 
 Fired the conscience and heart of the owner with 
 
 purposeful wish 
 To render the servitude happy. The word of 
 
 unkindness 
 Gave seldom a wound that could rankle, and never 
 
 in truth 
 Fell the heartless blow. 
 
 But to eyes of Portus the sun 
 Found rising and setting in Rudolph. The master's 
 
 frown 
 To the servant was dreariest midnight, his favor 
 
 was dawn. 
 
 But time made a wider chasm. When the planter's 
 
 son 
 Was intrusted to tutors, the negro was steadily set 
 To the tasks that befitted his station, and quickly 
 
 became 
 In the ways of tillage and many a manual art 
 Abundantly versed. No stint of the guidance 
 
 required 
 To fit for the useful life that alone could bestow 
 True honor and joy in the lot to the slave ordained. 
 But still it was Rudolph's indulgence at night to 
 
 repeat 
 His lesson again to the eager ear of the servant 
 Who listened with grateful attent, in the wish to 
 
 become 
 
THE STORY OF PORTUS. 19 
 
 As nearly like Rudolph as nature and circumstance 
 gave. 
 
 Though the vigilant law of the State to the bond- 
 man forbade 
 
 The dangerous key to the treasury-vaults of truth 
 
 In fear to engender plotting or evil-content, 
 
 Yet a household attendant like Portus might safely 
 be taught 
 
 By the planter's children to read and to write in the 
 firm 
 
 Conviction that personal ties gave security's pledge. 
 
 Thus Rudolph grew and Portus to manhood's 
 
 estate, 
 In a mutual affection, enlinked with one binding 
 
 decree 
 Like the law of the Medes and the Persians, ac- 
 knowledged by both 
 Yet never expressed, the law that the will of the 
 
 slave 
 Must be merged in that of the master. Had Portus 
 
 resisted 
 That will but once in defiance, could nothing have 
 
 stayed 
 The vengeance to follow. Submission at ultimate 
 
 cost 
 Must be exacted — yea, — unto penance of death. 
 
 Now Portus erelong had forgotten his African 
 speech 
 
20 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 
 
 And uttered a curious dialect mingled of those 
 
 In cabin and mansion. With deference humble the 
 
 rest 
 Regarded his loftier station, which privilege gave 
 To the others forbidden, and priceless affection and 
 
 trust 
 From the gentle folk whose dominion his fealty 
 
 owned. 
 In the rule of the cabins his mandate authority held 
 Overtopped by the master's only, his pattern and 
 
 guide. 
 
 In a tottering hovel beyond the plantation's bound 
 Black Juniper lived, to whom an old planter at 
 
 death 
 With philanthropic intent, had credentials be- 
 queathed 
 Of full manumission. Sometimes on a Saturday 
 
 night 
 Free Juny — for thus was the vagabond called — 
 
 would sneak 
 To the cabins with crestfallen look and in ragged 
 
 attire, 
 To witness the weekly carousals, or haply, to meet 
 The wench that gossip had titled "Free Juny's 
 
 Jane." 
 Owning no master and therefore distrusted alike 
 By black man and planter, the waif had been forced 
 
 to elect 
 
THE STORY OF TORTUS. 21 
 
 A white man as guardian, whose written pass might 
 
 avail 
 For the pledge of protection as aimlessly hither 
 
 and yon 
 He shuffled at random will. No station for such 
 Could society offer, a creature adrift, the best 
 To be hoped was tolerance merely. No portion 
 
 had he 
 In the highborn family pride that exultantly filled 
 The breast of the humblest dependant, never a 
 
 friend 
 Save the low-born white w^ho haply might harbor- 
 age give. 
 
 When Portus at evening had glimpse of the cow- 
 ering form 
 
 Stealing with hesitant tread by the sheltering fence. 
 
 His eye grew alert. Garden and henroost were 
 calling 
 
 For vigilance keenest. An unslaved African held 
 
 Motive for pillage to feudal dependants unknown. 
 
 So the trusted and trustworthy servant his master's 
 estate 
 
 Right valiantly guarded, his bosom dilating the 
 while 
 
 With pride in the family prestige, and boundless 
 contempt 
 
 For such offscouring. 
 
 His master's interest thus 
 Portus, as seasons flew by, increasingly felt 
 
22 THE STORY OF PORTUS. 
 
 His intrusted commitment, his master's advantage 
 
 the sum 
 Of his own ambitions; and knew no existence but 
 
 this, 
 And felt no longing for other. Nay, are we sure ? 
 Sometimes when he wandered apart, an expression 
 
 would steal 
 To his ox-like eye, a suggestive and hovering gleam 
 Of a differing life condition, the elusive sense 
 Of a conscious something, a dream or a memory, 
 
 which ? 
 Did ever a yearning vague for that earlier home 
 Utter faint outcry ? Did any bewildering ties 
 Remain unbroken that reached to that glimmering 
 
 past? 
 
 At last the plantation's head to his fathers' dust 
 Was gathered; and then Master Rudolph brought 
 
 to the home 
 A maiden the fairest in all that country that dwelt. 
 Then Portus opened his heart to a larger love 
 And to his young mistress devotion more absolute 
 
 gave 
 Than to any beside. 
 
 Suggested the planter one day 
 ' ' Portus, do likewise. Why not ? It would please 
 
 me well 
 That from all our plantation you freely select for 
 
 your own 
 
THE STORY OF PORTUS. 23 
 
 A comely girl and gather some family ties. 
 
 Your mistress's maid, pray, is she not fair as the 
 
 eye 
 Could desire ? " But drearily fell the refusing 
 
 response. 
 Then roused to displeasure, the master endeavored 
 
 to move 
 His servant's reluctance: till Portus in deepest 
 
 distress 
 Said, "No, Massa Rudolph. I eber has serbed 
 
 yo' true, 
 But fo' yore chillun wid better liking I works 
 Dan fo' darky chillun. So, massa, don' urge no 
 
 mo', 
 I wants no wife. Yore fambly plenty fo' me." 
 And the master stifled his anger and turned him 
 
 away 
 And let his servant compass his will in this. 
 
 Now the olive-branches had budded and clustered 
 
 around 
 The household roof-tree, and Portus devoted his 
 
 heart 
 And his hands to a larger service. No other than 
 
 he 
 Might attend the master as borne by the prancing 
 
 grays 
 He traversed the bounds of the spacious ancestral 
 
 estate. 
 
24 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 
 
 Old mistress too was his care; no arm so steady- 
 To guide the old lady's uneven and lingering steps 
 Down the garden walks and support her tremulous 
 frame. 
 
 But unto his younger mistress as bravely she took 
 The arduous duties that fell to a planter's wife, 
 His worth was above all counting; for who could 
 
 advise 
 Like him, as in care conscientious she watched o'er 
 
 the weal 
 Of the manifold weakling souls to her government 
 
 given ? 
 All the cares of a kingdom were hers, with Portus 
 
 beside 
 As Counsellor trusted and Officer chief of State. 
 
 Now as Rudolph's children, one after one, began 
 
 In the garden to toddle and sport 'mong the roses 
 and vines, 
 
 It was Portus' s dutiful pleasure to guard them from 
 harm. 
 
 Obeying their childish commands, and obeyed by 
 them 
 
 In turn; and he cherished them all as his own. 
 Indeed, 
 
 They were truly his only own. What had he be- 
 side ? 
 
 One gentle child of the group was the one who with 
 tears 
 
THE STORY OF PORTUS. 25 
 
 Narrated this tale by the flickering firelight's glow 
 When the grave had closed o'er the dutiful servant's 
 head. 
 
 The other children of bondage might easily bear 
 
 A dual life; to their owner's service and weal 
 
 One nature devoted, the other with ardor engrossed 
 
 In cabin pleasures, enrooted in personal ties. 
 
 But Portus, — none had he, — and he wished for none. 
 
 At the quarters on Saturday eve or in Christmas 
 
 week 
 No hand so skillful to pat the juba, or pick 
 The string of the banjo, the black man's jovial lute. 
 At times he would lead the dance, or the African 
 
 songs 
 Would chant in resonant tones that reluctantly died 
 In a doleful cadence; but oftener still would refuse, 
 In moodiest silence sitting or walking apart. 
 The negroes believed him peevish and haughty, 
 
 uplifted 
 By loftier service and home neath the mansion roof; 
 And the white folk pitied, and said, " It is hard, we 
 
 know 
 For a nigger like Portus, but so is his station or- 
 dained." 
 Sometimes in the Sabbath rest he would linger for 
 
 hours 
 On the turf by the branch, his face upturned to the 
 
 sky. 
 
26 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 
 
 What did he think of? Nay, was he thinking at 
 
 all? 
 What engendered these moods ? What hideth the 
 
 innermost heart 
 In its solitude deep, no clue unto others revealed ? 
 What intricate elements enter the current profound 
 Of onflowing fancies and longings that ceaselessly 
 
 glide 
 Through a human soul ? For the untaught African 
 
 slave 
 What thwarted ambitions, what memories well-nigh 
 
 effaced 
 Might be intermingled ? Could aught but monoto- 
 nous blank 
 Fill the musings of him who could hope for no 
 
 change or advance 
 In his life conditions ? 
 
 One morning the mistress said, 
 ' * What is it, Portus, my boy ? Would you fain be 
 
 free? 
 To purchase your ransom then, we might give you 
 
 the chance; 
 Though ill can your labor be spared, we might 
 
 change it perhaps 
 To a service for wage, if liberty be your desire. ' ' 
 
 * ' Naw, missus, naw. De free nigger, wat kin ' e 
 
 do? 
 He hab no place nor 'tachment. Nobody keers 
 
THE STORY OF TORTUS. 27 
 
 Fur de free nigger, nohow." 
 
 " You might, if you chose, go North 
 If freedom were given." 
 
 " Naw, missus, I wants it not, 
 De Norf is a stranger Ian', an 'tis col' in heart 
 I, ike 'tis in sunshine. Yo an' de chillun am all 
 Dat I hab to lub an to work fo'." 
 
 The mistress again, 
 " Is it Africa then that you long for ? Would you 
 
 return 
 To the home of your fathers? " 
 
 " Nebber," said Portus, aghast, 
 ''I'se a Christian man. In de sabage wilderness 
 
 now 
 Dey is naught fo' me. Mos' like my fambly dead. 
 An Portus would starb an' die. No Ian' saving dis 
 Hab I now. De Souf is my home, an here mus' I 
 
 stay. ' ' 
 
 But the mistress still, *' There is nothing you think 
 
 of that we 
 Can alter? You're sure that freedom you do not 
 
 wish?" 
 
 " Naw, missus, I'se thankfuller jus' to b'long to you. 
 Now I'b no need to worrit mysef wid accounts, 
 
28 THE STORY OF PORTUS. 
 
 Nor to pester my mind 'bout de time wen de rheu- 
 
 matiz come 
 To tie dese ol' shoulders an back wid de misery. ' ' 
 
 Thus 
 The kind and compassionate friends could nothing 
 
 supply 
 Save pitying love to the humble soul that perchance 
 Was pining for what he knew not. 
 
 Often at night 
 When armed with his master's pass the servant was 
 
 sent 
 As a messenger trusted for many a household need, 
 He fancied how strangely good it would seem to go 
 
 forth 
 His own director the while. Yet his physical needs 
 Were supplied to the full. No lack of raiment and 
 
 food, 
 With tenderest nursing for trifling ailments, — yes, 
 And staunchest devotion bestowed by the childish 
 
 group 
 Of his domineering and faithful followers. So 
 In a gilded prison his life went silently on. 
 
 Under shadowing oaks the master a chapel had 
 
 built 
 For plantation worship. Here weekly, on Sabbath 
 
 morn. 
 The mistress came with her gentle presence to teach 
 
THE STORY OF PORTUS. 29 
 
 These ignorant ones of God and Heaven and Christ. 
 Sometimes a traveling preacher pursuing his round 
 Of mission endeavor would offer his service to 
 
 preach 
 To the cabin people, and gladly was ever received. 
 But at last one day from Yankee-land there arrived 
 One who in priestly guise did scatter the seeds 
 Of murmuring and revolt. The planters were roused. 
 With threats of his life they drove the invader away 
 Who thus could abuse hospitality's sacredest claim. 
 But the preacher departing a dangerous volume had 
 
 left 
 (A tale of slavery's wrongs, that had roused the 
 
 world) 
 Hid in the chapel; and Portus discovered and read. 
 Was this the book he had angrily heard discussed 
 By the white folk last autumn ? "A dastardly lie," 
 
 they declared. 
 And to Portus it seemed most unreal. Could such 
 
 things exist ? 
 And yet what mysterious cord did it vibrate within. 
 This story so strange ? No cruelty e'er had he felt. 
 Yet he knew in his innermost soul that should the 
 
 dim thoughts 
 By the book suggested be openly told, on his head 
 Would punishment fall, severer by far than he ever 
 Had suffered or feared. And so he stifled his mu- 
 sings 
 And buried the book, nor revealed at the cabins one 
 
 word 
 
30 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 
 
 Of its dangerous import. 
 
 The planters with spirit declared, 
 ** If that Yankee traitor be found in these borders 
 
 again, 
 There's a limb and a halter ready." 
 
 Again they affirmed, 
 
 '* Our slaves must be carefully taught to assist them 
 to fill 
 
 Their stations with happiness here, and to fit them 
 for Heaven. 
 
 To these foreign intruders no more will we harbor- 
 age give, 
 
 But Christian preachers among us shall fittingly 
 teach 
 
 The slaves in our chapels their duty. So came they 
 forthwith 
 
 Bishop and Elder, — many a learned Divine, — 
 
 Making their circuits. Sometimes on the Sabbath 
 morn 
 
 And again mid-week, the great bell sounded its peal; 
 
 Then all on the old plantation — white-featured or 
 black — 
 
 Laid for the time their labors and pleasures aside, 
 
 While with fervent exhortings the preachers showed 
 to the slaves 
 
 How Jesus was lord of their souls, and if they were 
 washed 
 
 In the blood of the Lamb and in service were faith- 
 ful and true, 
 
THE STORY OF TORTUS. 31 
 
 That the mansions of Heaven were ready for them 
 
 at the last. 
 And the children of servitude gladly the message 
 
 received, 
 Committing their souls to Heaven (to escape from 
 
 Hell), 
 And finding religious joy. 
 
 But doth it surprise 
 That when the proclaiming of liberty loosened the 
 
 bond 
 That bound them so long to these masters, religion 
 
 was found 
 From the moral code in their minds too often 
 
 divorced ? 
 These who no riches had owned, should they rightly 
 
 discern 
 Betwixt mine and thine? The equivocal ties of 
 
 marriage 
 That might by the auction mart be dissevered at 
 
 will, 
 Can we marvel much that still they should foil to 
 
 bind ? 
 Nay, it is not strange. Its moral perceptions the 
 
 world 
 Hath by ages of tutelage gained, and each ignorant 
 
 soul 
 And degraded race through discipline only can rise 
 To a moral manhood. Yet faith and devotion were 
 
 born 
 
32 THE STORY OF PORT US. 
 
 In these childlike hearts that so readily learned to 
 
 rejoice 
 In Jesus and Heaven. 
 
 From the preachers Portus had learned 
 To exhort with fervor; with marvellous unction 
 
 could sway 
 The souls of his hearers. No other so quickly 
 
 could move 
 The hearts of women devout unto exstacy's thrill, 
 Till they swooned in religious trance. 
 
 But the mistress had said, 
 When the chill of November had ushered the busiest 
 
 month 
 Of all the twelve; when the holiday season ahead 
 And the smokehouse duties to furnish abundant 
 
 supply 
 For the food of the year were engrossing the labors 
 
 of all, 
 "You must not, Portus, at present. It renders 
 
 unfit 
 For the needful and arduous tasks that the season 
 
 doth bring. 
 Its fitting time hath religion. For that you must 
 
 wait." 
 
 Sometimes when a wrestling hour had been valiantly 
 
 passed 
 The dusky visage would gloomier grow. Not 
 
 then 
 
THE STORY OF PORTUS. 33 
 
 Could the arts of the children awaken a smile, nor 
 
 cajole 
 To the nursery stories of rabbit-foot charms, and 
 
 the tale 
 How Jack o' My Lantern had once disclosed to his 
 
 eyes 
 Direst events to happen. 
 
 But to usual mood 
 Returning full soon, he loftily honored his station, 
 Chief factor in all the affairs of this feudal realm, 
 This monarchy small that was ruled by an absolute 
 
 power. 
 But stay, — What said I ? Was absolute power 
 
 ever given 
 To mortal intrustment? No bond or restriction 
 
 imposed ? 
 On a neigboring plantation to Rudolph's, the owner 
 
 was known 
 Far and near as a merciless master. No stigma 
 
 more foul 
 Than that one to whom God had committed the 
 
 fostering care 
 Of fellow- creatures less favored, should recreant 
 
 prove 
 To the trust divine. 
 
 One day it was whispered abroad 
 That a dreadful deed, more dire than the sensitive 
 tongue 
 
34 THE STORY OF PORT US. 
 
 Could frame into words, in that planter's name had 
 been done 
 
 By an overseer hired. Like the flash of a turpen- 
 tine flame 
 
 Was the feeling enkindled, till retribution severe 
 
 From the outraged community fell on their infamous 
 heads. 
 
 Then the planters in fellowship gathered, cemented 
 a pledge 
 
 That the soil of their State should be sacred from 
 tyranny's stain. 
 
 So willed they, and thus kept oppression and cruelty 
 down. 
 
 One autumn a visitor honored, a lady of thoughtful 
 And dignified mien, from her far away English 
 
 abode 
 Came to Rudolph's mansion, whose welcoming 
 
 doors swung wide. 
 On the latticed piazza at evening she sat with her 
 
 host 
 In converse familiar. His sons so handsome and 
 
 brave 
 And his fair- haired girls under blossoming rose-trees 
 
 played. 
 *' These children are blest with a beautiful home," 
 
 she said, 
 "And happy is their allotment." 
 
 ''Thinkest thou so?" 
 The planter replied, " Not seldom I tremble to think 
 
THE STORY OF TORTUS. 35 
 
 One thought for the future. The Lord foreseeth, 
 
 not I. 
 But near a volcano's crater, though dormant as yet, 
 Our home hath been built, and mutterings now may 
 
 be heard 
 Oi the fearful explosion that on us may finally burst. 
 With gloomy foreboding the lives of my children I 
 
 watch. 
 What fate will their future know ? Will they 
 
 worthily meet 
 The crisis that surely must come, God knoweth how 
 
 soon? 
 Perhaps before ever their innocent hearts are inured 
 To the desperate conflicts of life. But our hands 
 
 are fettered; 
 Our duty is clear. At every hazard we must 
 The social order preserve and protect our homes. 
 Not for a moment's reprieve may our leaders relax 
 The vigilant watch which alone is our safety's price, 
 Eternal warfare waged, whatever the cost, 
 Against alien intrigues that threat to engulf us all. 
 But the dangers are thickening about us. Incendi- 
 aries try 
 To arouse to rebellion our servants. A cowardly 
 
 part 
 Their pretensions are playing, with envy and avarice 
 
 mixed. 
 Mark the ways of these ignorant servants, this 
 
 childish race. 
 Yesterday savages wild, but to-day brought close 
 
36 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 
 
 To Christian truth and the comforts of civiHzed Hfe. 
 How else than through slavery's school had they 
 
 ever been reached 
 By the white man's uplifting touch and the gospel's 
 
 power ? 
 Surely beneath the sun there hath never been seen 
 A happier people, a safer allotment than theirs, 
 Shelter and food unfailing, and freedom entire 
 From anxious thought for every to-morrow's need; 
 And the Lord's best bestowment, — labor adapted so 
 
 well 
 To their strength and their mental resource, in a 
 
 generous soil, 
 And a genial climate, Nature's beneficent gifts. 
 Visit the quarters at evening when labor is done 
 And list to their joyous carousals. They seldom 
 
 are sick 
 And sorrow and anger are transient. Witness the 
 
 joy 
 Their religion affordeth. If lost for an instant their 
 
 hope, 
 Forthwith on the next Lord's Day they regain it 
 
 with ease. 
 Not a fear for time or eternity vexeth their hearts. 
 Yet traitorous men of the North seek entrance 
 
 among us 
 To make these wretched, by rousing within them 
 
 desires 
 To be soon disappointed, and forcing us ever to 
 
 make 
 
THE STORY OF TORTUS. 37 
 
 Restrictions more heavy. But truly oppression is 
 rare 
 
 In our borders. Bethink you, indeed, why should 
 any exist ? 
 
 Even selfish advantage alone might for motive suffice 
 
 To lead us to kindness. We cherish the beasts that 
 we own; 
 
 Still more fellow-creatures immortal intrusted by God 
 
 To our training and government. Unto His Judge- 
 ship alone 
 
 Our sole account will we render." 
 
 And Portus heard 
 And pondered in silence. 
 
 Answered the visitor then, 
 "Is it everywhere so in the Southland ? " 
 
 " Perhaps not, indeed," 
 The planter replied, " There is cruelty shown, it is 
 
 said, 
 In the lowlying tidewater sections of sugar and rice 
 Whose rank miasma the white man scarcely can 
 
 breathe. 
 The salaried overseer truly doth sometimes rule 
 With a rigorous hand. For the hireling can never 
 
 be bound 
 By those personal ties the inheriting master doth 
 
 feel 
 For his homeborn dependants. Coarsened natures 
 
 are! those, 
 
38 THE STORY OF PORT US. 
 
 Though of Saxon ancestry born, who would choose 
 for hire 
 
 A task so debasing. And haply most brutal of all 
 
 Is the negro oppressor, when set by his owner to 
 rule 
 
 O'er his fellows. Then doth tyranny flourish indeed. 
 
 That the system doth harbor its faults, I acknowl- 
 edge with pain. 
 
 It giveth a power that the despot will sometimes 
 abuse; 
 
 Round the necks of the masters it hangeth a bur- 
 densome load 
 
 Too heavy, well nigh, for humanity's strength to 
 endure. 
 
 I devoutly wish we were able to rid us at once 
 
 Of this vast, half-imbecile horde that so weightily 
 rests 
 
 On our hands and our hearts. But human systems 
 are ever 
 
 Imperfect. For us there remaineth no way of es- 
 cape. 
 
 Our Maker hath placed them among us. Without 
 our choice 
 
 In the midst of this social order our lot hath been 
 cast; 
 
 And so we must struggle to fill our appointed place, 
 
 To rule our servants with wisdom, and save our 
 State 
 
 From anarchy's threat. But I dare not look to the 
 end, 
 
THE STORY OF TORTUS. 39 
 
 Even now low rumblings prelude the gathering 
 
 storm. 
 And if it burst, — ah, well, — we can survive 
 Perhaps. But what can succor that helpless race ? " 
 
 Thus many a master reasoned. But who shall 
 
 contend 
 Against the decrees ordained ? The eternal truth 
 That every soul in its Maker's image created 
 Holdeth inherent right in its personal life 
 Nor can truly be owned by another, — this small 
 
 stone 
 Cut without hands from the mountain, was destined 
 
 to grow 
 And to fill the earth; till at length the image tall, 
 An intricate social system, powerful and proud, 
 Should be ground to the dust beneath it. 
 
 Louder were heard 
 The threatenings of trouble, and in their revengeful 
 
 wake 
 Came failure and panic; till Master Rudolph at 
 
 length 
 Saw poverty's straits before him. His menials now 
 Had grown too many and costly. He scarcely 
 
 could care 
 For them all. And creditors pressed. Yet he 
 
 painfully shrunk 
 From the household dismembering. In truth, hardly 
 
 better it seemed 
 
40 THE STORY OF PORTUS. 
 
 To his sensitive nature than parting with children 
 and wife, 
 
 But driven to final distress, he summoned the slaves 
 
 And told to them frankly the trouble his vision fore- 
 saw. 
 
 Yet he promised, ' * I never will part the ones near- 
 est of kin. 
 
 Nor needlessly heartbreak give. But those who 
 have formed 
 
 Slender personal ties, stern fate may enforce me to 
 sell 
 
 For the requisite payment of legal and righteous 
 claims. ' ' 
 
 Then the servants, excited and trembling, pleaded 
 
 with tears, 
 '* Naw, Massa Rudolph, — sell us not from our 
 
 home. 
 We'se work de harder, fur true, an' we'se eat de 
 
 less; 
 An' we'se holp you through dis yh' trouble." 
 
 And Portus came. 
 
 With affrighted look, and in choking voice he im- 
 plored 
 
 '* Massa, yo knows dat I hab nary chick nor chile; 
 
 But yours, Mass' Rudolph, are mine, and I mightily 
 hopes 
 
 Dat yo' will not sen' me from dem. I sh'd die." 
 
THE STORY OF PORTUS. 41 
 
 "No, that I will not, Portus," the planter replied, 
 
 "And indeed I could not spare you." 
 
 Thus that day 
 
 The master gave to his servants a pledge and 
 avowed, 
 
 "Your fate is inwoven with mine." A few whose 
 wives 
 
 Or husbands served upon other plantations, to these 
 
 Were removed, themselves and the owners consent- 
 ing; except 
 
 For this, the household remained intact. 
 
 At last 
 A rumor arose, and increased to a marvelous tale 
 That a bold fanatic, called Brown of Kansas, had 
 
 shapen 
 A hellish plot to incite the negroes to rise 
 And to murder the Ruling Race. It was whispered 
 
 low 
 Lest suspicion should reach the cabins. But Portus 
 
 was sent 
 That night to the neighboring village, and tidings 
 
 vague 
 To his ear were drifted. Returning, no hint nor 
 
 word 
 He told at the quarters, but straight to the master 
 
 went. 
 Unwonted fire in his eye was kindled; his lip 
 And his form were quivering. " Massa," he cried, 
 
 " Dey say 
 
42 THE STORY OF PORTUS. 
 
 Dat at las' de Yankees hab foun' out a plan fur to 
 
 mek 
 De black man free." 
 
 "■ Indeed, and who told you that? " 
 Scornful the master answered, not as his wont 
 To reply to Portus. " Pshuh! a tatder's tale, 
 A madman's trick! A devilish frenzy hath fouled 
 The land. But hark ye! Ye need not think it can 
 
 aught 
 Achieve. Such dastard crime 'gainst the laws of 
 
 the States 
 Were folly. But hush, you fool, and see to it 
 
 well 
 That you blab not a word in the quarters." 
 
 Trembling still 
 Answered the negro, " Massa, yo' do me wrong. 
 I hab not tole, an' I promise dey shall not know. ' ' 
 
 Then the master, relenting, spoke with a kindlier 
 
 tone, 
 " In truth, do you wish it, Portus ? Would you be 
 
 free?" 
 
 ** Naw, Massa, it am not fer me, an' I wants it not. 
 
 Yet still, I tink, if 'twar diifunt, den, perhaps 
 
 I would lub fur awile to wish an' to choose, an' to 
 
 hab 
 De ownership true ob mysef But we all mus' tek 
 De place dat de Lord hab giben." 
 
THE STORY OF PORTUS. 43 
 
 " But tell me, Portus, 
 What is it you want ? Am I ever unkind ? What 
 
 more 
 Could liberty give you ? ' ' 
 
 " O massa," the slave replied, 
 " Yo' hab alius been kin' an' protectin'. But yet I 
 
 keep wishin' 
 Dat it all war dififunt somehow." A shining tear 
 Trickled down the dusky cheek as he turned away. 
 
 But blacker the war-clouds grew, and the gathering 
 
 storm 
 That alone could lighten the firmament thundered 
 
 at last 
 In fury terrific to rage till the land had been washed 
 From the stain of a national sin. Then mid fast 
 
 falling tears 
 The bow of Liberty's promise illumined the heavens. 
 Now the master buckled his sword, and departing 
 
 he said, 
 " Portus, my faithful boy, to your hands I commit 
 The care of this home and its burden of lives so 
 
 precious. ' ' 
 And the negro's manhood at thought of the weighty 
 
 intrustment 
 Awoke in his bosom. With choking voice he 
 
 replied, 
 " Nebber yo' fear. Mass' Rudolph, I'se tek good 
 
 keer 
 Ob Mis' Lucy an' all de chillum. Dey's safe wid 
 
44 THE STORY OF PORTUS. 
 
 History hath written that during those terrible 
 
 years 
 Of hatred and bloodshed with menace of famine 
 
 before, 
 On many a lone plantation, innocent babes 
 And tender women to hardship and toil unused. 
 Waited and prayed for husband or sire or son. 
 Protector and prop, who with grim foreboding had 
 
 left 
 His cherished ones far from the touch of a human 
 
 hand 
 Or other guardian and help than the African slave, 
 Whose liberty thus by a nation's blood was bought. 
 To the faithful hands of its bondsmen the stricken 
 
 South 
 In its desperate strait did its treasures all commit. 
 Their willing labor alone did supply the food 
 That fed the armies abroad and sustained the 
 
 homes. 
 Through four long years of privation and painful 
 
 suspense 
 They faltered not nor betrayed the responsible trust. 
 
 Now freedom at last was proclaimed by the Nation's 
 Head 
 
 As the law of the land. And though no fruition 
 appeared 
 
 For many a month, yet among the slaves its rumor 
 
 Was vaguely whispered, a legend not well under- 
 stood, 
 
THE STORY OF PORTUS. 45 
 
 Or but dimly believed. At night by the fires of the 
 
 cabin, 
 When ghostly visions and ancient mysterious tales 
 With hesitant voice were repeated, the fancy would 
 
 dwell 
 On the wonderful theme. Was it something to 
 
 hope or to fear ? 
 What was this freedom ? A Paradise here on earth, 
 Where the darkies would all be rich, and would 
 
 never again 
 Be forced to labor? Or was it as white men 
 
 declared 
 A devilish plotting of Yankees with horns and 
 
 hoofs, 
 A scheme to murder the Masters, to take their lands. 
 And enslave the blacks in a bondage crueller far 
 That they ever had felt ? It seemed to their fancy 
 
 akin 
 To the Judgment Day with its visions wondrously 
 
 mixed 
 Of heavenly crowns and sulphurous gulfs of fire. 
 
 The final winter had come and the boasts of success 
 Grew ever more loud as the famished and desperate 
 
 South 
 Strove in vain to recover its failing hope and escape 
 The defeat impending. The air with rumor was 
 
 thick 
 Of Sherman advancing, the track of his warlike 
 
 sycthe 
 
46 THE STORY OF PORTUS. 
 
 A desolate swath through the heart of their beautiful 
 
 State, 
 Filled with smoking cities and homes to pillage 
 
 given over. 
 Then the direful news that the capital city, the pride 
 Of all hearts, lay in ruin of ashes; its homeless souls 
 Left starving and helpless; that now the revaging 
 
 host 
 Were moving to northward; that in a brief time they 
 
 would pass 
 Near Rudolph's plantation, where Portus, the faith- 
 ful slave 
 At his mistress's bidding made ready with haste to 
 
 protect 
 His master's domain from the ruthless invader's 
 
 power. 
 
 Unrest had corrupted the quarters. This turbulent 
 year 
 
 Those who fain would escape from labor had wan- 
 dered away; 
 
 While a few at the claims of war were reluctantly 
 sent 
 
 To the auction mart, sowing seeds of fear and dis- 
 trust 
 
 Among those who were left. 
 
 Now tumult and tremor beset 
 The unhappy plantation, as aged and young, black 
 and white. 
 
THE STORY OF PORTUS. 47 
 
 For the enemy strove to prepare. To the thickest 
 
 grove 
 Of the forest, with provident haste the horses and 
 
 mules 
 Were driven. In the garden depths the silver they 
 
 buried, 
 And filled with food and with treasure each secretest 
 
 nook. 
 So made they ready. 
 
 Then bravely the mistress assembled 
 The household servants at first, and she said, " To- 
 night 
 The Northern army comes and will doubtless declare 
 That you now are free. No struggle longer I make. 
 Choose each for himself But know that you all are 
 
 dear 
 To my heart, and that if you remain I will do the 
 
 best 
 That I can for your future." 
 
 With instant accord they replied, 
 *' We'se stay wid you eber, Mis' Lucy. We don' 
 
 wanter go. ' ' 
 So said they at first; but later did many repent, 
 And recklessly wandered at will. But Portus drew 
 
 near 
 Saying, " Yo* an' de chillun, Missus, am alius my 
 
 own 
 An' my only frens. I eber is yours until death," 
 
48 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 
 
 " God bless you, Portus," was all that the mistress 
 said. 
 
 And now she gave bidding that all the plantation 
 people 
 
 Before the piazza should gather; then firmly de- 
 clared, 
 
 " The Yankee army approacheth. You all are free. 
 
 No service longer I claim." A silence profound 
 
 As the hush of the grave on the group for a moment 
 fell; 
 
 Then some of them laughed and shouted, while 
 others wept. 
 
 And all in wonder awaited what next should befall. 
 
 Now came the advancing host and a Major tall 
 Rode up to the door of the mansion and making 
 
 salute 
 Said, "Madam, be not alarmed. No harm shall 
 
 arrive 
 To you or your household; but food for our soldiers 
 
 and beasts 
 We are forced to take. I will station a guard to 
 
 to protect 
 From all needless pillage." 
 
 The lady haughtily bowed. 
 " We are at your mercy, "she said. Then turning she 
 passed 
 
THE STORY OF TORTUS. 49 
 
 To an upper room where her children were gathered 
 
 in fear, — 
 That she might not witness the rifling of her home. 
 
 Now Portus kept watch all night at his mistress's 
 
 door. 
 *' Here, you fool nigger, come, will you go with us?" 
 A corporal asked, " We'll give you a uniform blue. 
 And make you a man, by a better species of work 
 Than the service of rebel women. ' ' 
 
 The dilated eye 
 For an instant flashed: his figure grew more erect. 
 Not freedom, but manhood, a moment's temptation 
 
 gave. 
 Then the passive mien came back. " Naw, boss," 
 
 he said, 
 "I'se promise' to stay by Mis' Lucy an' tek good 
 
 keer 
 Ob de house an de chillun." 
 
 Next morning the straggling squads 
 Of detested bluecoats had passed. But the wrecks 
 
 remained. 
 All was dismal and bare. Full half the plantation's 
 
 force 
 Eager to taste of the newfound freedom had fol- 
 lowed 
 The wake of the army. A glittering bauble now 
 Did this boon of liberty seem to their curious eyes; 
 
50 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 
 
 Nor recked they of ills they must suffer before they 
 
 should learn 
 To prize it indeed at its worth. For the present it 
 
 seemed 
 Like permission for leisure and wandering, treasures 
 
 of gold 
 To be had for the asking, license unchecked for 
 
 whatever 
 Their baser natures might prompt. 
 
 In the mind of the child 
 While subject as yet to his tutors we seek to instill 
 The rules for self-governing action, and labor to 
 
 make 
 The practice a gradual habit, lest fettered too much 
 In his tutelege early, at last when arriveth the 
 
 time 
 For manlier effort, the unused powers should react 
 In a warring chaos. Of millions of slaves in our 
 
 land 
 On whom without warning the sunrise of freedom 
 
 arose. 
 With resolute stride a few forth-started at once 
 On the road to a vigorous manhood. But truly to 
 
 most 
 The boastful gift of liberty proved at the first 
 A pitfall wherein they stumbled; out of whose 
 
 depths 
 Some struggled; — but others alas, were powerless 
 
 to rise. 
 
THE STORY OF PORTUS. 51 
 
 Then shall we say it were best that it had not been ? 
 But no, — a thousand noes, — it is only by pangs 
 Of human distress that a human soul can begin 
 Its earthly career. Nor is ever an epoch born 
 But by throes convulsive and laboring pains of 
 
 birth. 
 And liberty then a stalwarth manchild proved 
 At whose natal hour was a nation's agony paid 
 For its deliverance, — yea, and was added still 
 Full many an after-pang before healing came. 
 Was the price too costly ? Nay, if the Lord be true, 
 And if He ruleth the nations, dare not we 
 To deny His wisdom and love in the stress and the 
 
 strain 
 That shook the civilized world when in fulness of 
 
 time 
 Salvation was born upon earth for two races in 
 
 thrall. 
 
 Now following on apace came the final crash. 
 
 Richmond had fallen, Lee surrendered. All 
 
 The treasure and heartbreak and blood had been 
 given for naught. 
 
 Ere long came the master, wounded and helpless 
 home. 
 
 From the sufferings of hospital prison at last re- 
 leased ; 
 
 With his riches vanished, his vigor of youthful zeal 
 
 Departed forever, his home and plantation a 
 wreck. 
 
52 THE STORY OF PORTUS. 
 
 Nor could former experience shed an illumining 
 
 light 
 On the future forlorn into which so blankly he 
 
 gazed. 
 Stricken and stunned for awhile the household 
 
 sat; 
 Then wearily summoned their strength to attempt 
 
 to restore 
 The semblance at least of a home. 
 
 But to Portus withal 
 Life gathered new meanings. Labor indeed was 
 
 no less, 
 Nay, heavier now than of old. He accepted no 
 
 wage, 
 And his homely allotment by meanlier comfort was 
 
 graced. 
 Yet he felt that the service was joyfuller. It was 
 
 free. 
 Responsibility now had impressed the seal 
 Of manhood upon his soul. 
 
 He had wisely been taught 
 Those industrial habits and arts of manual skill 
 Which provident planters were wont to instill in 
 
 the minds 
 Of their chosen dependants. Each lone plantation 
 
 supplied 
 Of well-trained artisans alway an adequate force 
 For the household's inherent demands. When the 
 
 merciless bolts 
 
THE STORY OF TORTUS. 53 
 
 Of war had fallen, the favored of fortune were 
 
 these. 
 While others both Saxon and African, stood in de- 
 spair, 
 Such souls held resources within, that naught could 
 
 deprive 
 Of their measureless worth. So to Portus the priv- 
 ilege blessed 
 Was given to succor from want the household he 
 
 loved. 
 But shortly the idling bands who at Liberty's birth 
 Threw away the hoe, expecting thereafter to lie 
 In the lap of luxury — labor forever aside — 
 Came back from their wanderings, having discov- 
 ered how poor 
 Was the gift of freedom they knew not at present 
 
 to use 
 To final advantage. Some back to the mansion- 
 house came. 
 Nigh ready to sue for enslavement again, if but so 
 They might sustenance freely receive at another's 
 
 hand. 
 And many fell ill and died. And some even blamed 
 Old Father Abram himself that he made them free, 
 But unto the boon no bequest of wealth had added. 
 
 Could other than this have been hoped for ? Israel 
 
 of old 
 Escaped from Egyptian bondage, yet failing of 
 
 rest 
 
54 THE STORY OF PORTUS. 
 
 In the land of promise and hope, for the fleshpots 
 
 sighed 
 That their servitude nourished. And so these dusky- 
 sons 
 Of a later release ungrateful murmurings mingled 
 With true thanksgivings. Yet still unto most such 
 
 thoughts 
 Were transient, if tolerant harborage ever they found. 
 Few of them all would this dear-bought freedom 
 
 have sold 
 For a mess of pottage, though laid at starvation's 
 
 door. 
 Millions of ignorant souls, they were suddenly 
 
 launched 
 Without rudder or pilot or stores for the journey's 
 
 need 
 On an unexplored ocean, endangered with shallows 
 
 and rocks. 
 Yet in spite of the wrecks that have perished, and 
 
 breakers before. 
 What advancement is theirs! In all its annals the 
 
 world 
 Such progress hath never recorded in space so brief. 
 
 But those were dispiriting times. When the starv- 
 ing deserters 
 
 With disappointment devoured came straggling 
 back, 
 
 Seeking food and shelter and aid at the master's 
 door, 
 
THE STORY OF TORTUS. 55 
 
 Then Portus impatient rebuked, " Go long wid yo' 
 
 all. 
 Fse tek keer ob de wite folks. Niggers am triflin' 
 
 account. ' ' 
 
 But the master with pity, ' ' The cabin quarters are 
 
 free 
 For your habitation again, and if you should choose 
 My crop of cotton to make, I will pay you wage 
 As I can afford." So with friction and grumbling 
 
 perchance. 
 To the old plantation did many return and begin 
 The life of an epoch new with labor's rewards 
 And relations as yet untried. 
 
 'Twas a desperate age; 
 For ignorant hordes at large made villany rife; 
 And Justice with paralyzed arm and averted face 
 Had fled the courts, in default of her God-given 
 
 trust. 
 White men all drunken grown with the gore of war 
 Hated the freedmen and deadliest vengeance vowed 
 On the new-time rulers; or, haply, if failing of these 
 On the dusky tools that they managed. 
 
 Then began 
 The reign of the Ku-Klux terrors, the long un- 
 checked 
 And terrible friction of turbulent years that make 
 
56 THE STORY OF PORTVS. 
 
 More deplorable comment upon the vile stains that 
 
 deface 
 Humanity's record than crimes of warfare itself. 
 
 One dreary midnight to Colonel Rudolph it chanced 
 
 That a sudden sickness befell; for the army life 
 
 His powers had enfeebled. Now Portus his mule 
 bestrode 
 
 To get him in haste to the town for the doctor's aid. 
 
 But arrived at the edge of the wood he encountered 
 a gang 
 
 Oi black-masked riders made spectral by lanterns 
 dark. 
 
 'Twas the dismal and sickening tale that hath often 
 been told. 
 
 Mules had been stolen, gardens and henroosts 
 sacked; 
 
 Then as final incitement, a white man's body was 
 found 
 
 Near the head of the creek. Suspicion was cen- 
 tered at last 
 
 On a worthless negro whose hut in the forest was 
 built. 
 
 Even if false the surmising, example was due. 
 
 When law failed to punish, imperative need had 
 arisen 
 
 That vigilant citizens rise to protect the State. 
 
 So the ruthless band in the name of order and law 
 
 Went forth on a lawless errand, but found them- 
 selves balked 
 
THE STORY OF TORTUS. 57 
 
 Of the victim Intended, and now In sullenest mood 
 They were riding again to their homes. 
 
 At the startling sight 
 Of the grim procession Portus was filled with alarm 
 And fled In dismay. But a murderous voice cried 
 
 out, 
 " Halt with yon stolen mule. A nigger abroad 
 At midnight betokens no good. Ef yer aint the one 
 Thet's been troublln' these yere parts, ye hev sins 
 
 enough 
 Of yer own to account for. We'll string yer up 
 
 with despatch 
 To yon walnut tree, an' termorrer yer damned race 
 Shall a needful lesson learn." 
 
 Then Portus felt 
 A sudden pain in the back, and fainting fell. 
 Shot through the lung. The maskers gathered 
 
 around 
 With the halter ready to finish their bloody deed 
 By a ghastly sight for the morning passers by. 
 But just as they tightened the rope, on the pallid face 
 A glimmer of moonlight fell. The murderer's 
 
 hand 
 Relaxed Its hold. An astonished voice exclaimed, 
 " I 'clar ter gracious. I'm blowed, ef we aint been 
 
 an' shot 
 Col'n Rudolph's Portus. Bless me, but 'tis too 
 
 bad, 
 Best nigger that ever lived." 
 
58 THE STORY OF TORTUS. 
 
 The senseless form 
 Not Lintenderly now they lifted, and laid him down 
 At his master's door and silently hurried away. 
 There the household found him. What human 
 
 skill could devise 
 Was done for his cure; but the time decreed had 
 
 come. 
 Feebly his dying whisper was borne to the ears 
 Of the sorrowing group that watched the expiring 
 
 breath. 
 " God bless yo' Massa an' Missus, chillun all. 
 Yo' has eber been kin' an' lovin' an' good ter me. 
 I has tried to serb yo' well. Dis body b' longed 
 To you. But de soul was alius my own an' God's. 
 I has no complent to mek. But I'se glad to go 
 For in de mansions above, I is suttin sure 
 Dat all will be diffunt somehow." 
 
 They buried with tears 
 Their dead in a garden nook that his dusky hand 
 Had so carefully tended, and planted a rose-tree near, 
 And a simple head-board raised with inscription 
 
 brief, 
 *' Portus, — a servant, — faithful unto death." 
 One mourner constant, she who related this tale, 
 Unto womanhood grown, erected a marble stone 
 As memento befitting the humble friend whose 
 
 devotion 
 Had brightened the gloom of her checkered child- 
 hood days. 
 
THE STORY OF PORTUS. 59 
 
 And now the children of Rudolph's children come 
 And heap it with roses every returning spring. 
 
 A simple tale of one who loved and strove 
 To do his duty where his humble lot 
 Was cast; a fate indeed not most unkind. 
 All of its compensations slavery gave 
 To Portus freely, yea, and sheltered him 
 From many an ill that vexeth anxious hearts. 
 Why did he wish it different ? Nay, hath God 
 Made man to bear his image ? Can a soul 
 Formed to aspire and grow, its all in all 
 Find in another's will ? Ye parents kind 
 Who strive to shape the pathway of your child 
 By cherished plans that your best love hath laid, 
 Teachers and priests and princes, will ye dare 
 To fetter souls you fain would foster, or 
 Usurp the Headship held by God alone ? 
 
 Tale of a system dead, that while it checked 
 The onward march of truth and held the seeds 
 Of sure decay and death, had none the less 
 Bright phases that the world will ever keep 
 In tender memory. A social type 
 To Southern soil indigenous hath died, 
 Never precisely to be reproduced 
 While time shall last. So be it. It is well. 
 It fitteth not this age. Yet gently still 
 We'll write its epitaph. In God's wise plan 
 
6o THE STORY OF PORTUS. 
 
 It formed, perchance, a needful stepping stone 
 
 To lift from savagery a heathen race. 
 
 Yea, more. Its harvest of results to-day 
 
 Hath brought strange races in relations close 
 
 That so the world may truelier understand 
 
 Duties and rights of universal man. 
 
 Yet in the firmament of broadening truth, 
 
 Dark cloud-forms still the gray horizon skirt; 
 
 Hard social questions, new, yet ever old, 
 
 In varied forms seek new adjustment still 
 
 In every land and nation, race and clime, 
 
 Yet fail of perfect answer. Like attempt 
 
 To render motion ceaseless, — efforts made 
 
 To square the circle, — problem nearly solved 
 
 Yet still insoluble — so is the task 
 
 In just relations man with fellow-man 
 
 To place, and all with God in harmony. 
 
 What just precedence each should yield to each; 
 
 How should submission blend with mastery 
 
 That so the social order be preserved 
 
 Yet still each heavenborn soul unfettered stand 
 
 In personal growth ? Which hath superior claim, 
 
 Mankind or men ? Which is the unit fixed, 
 
 The human race, or each small entity it holds? 
 
 Like wheel within a wheel, the small and great 
 
 Each with its central pivot, move we all 
 
 Within society. If broken cog 
 
 Give clash with tiny fellow-wheel, ensues 
 
 Disaster that perchance may hindrance give 
 
 To largest revolution. True indeed, 
 
THE STORY OF TORTUS. 6i 
 
 Must the adjustment be to bind aright 
 The one to many, and the all in one. 
 
 Large conquests hath the conscience of the world 
 Through conflict gained and never will restore. 
 Thus still shall later truths their triumphs win. 
 But oh, the hate, the strife, the jostling jar, — 
 The blood of heroes! May we never win 
 Reform by peaceful process ? 
 
 Is the shower 
 More potent for the lightnings ? Yea, it needs 
 Electric flash and shock of thunders rude 
 Of perilous vapors foul to cleanse the air. 
 This too is Sovereign plan, and in God's way 
 Are no mistakes. 
 
 As strains of music given 
 By players near lend but discordant clash. 
 Yet heard afar, blend in proportions sweet; 
 So all these discords, if they could be heard 
 From Heavenly heights might seem to blend in one 
 Triumphant strain of Heavenly harmony. 
 
Songs of the 
 
 Southland 
 
K 
 
 LINES TO A FRIEND. 
 
 IND friend, of mutual faith and kindred taste, 
 
 A thousand cares and joys with thee I've shared, 
 And firmest confidence was ne'er misplaced 
 However fate hath fared. 
 
 Yet in most welcome converse oft hath been. 
 
 Art, science, poesy, whate'er the theme, 
 A note of subtle discord entering in 
 Like mutterings in a dream. 
 
 Is it the fault of climate, or of birth ? 
 
 Of the environment that childhood knew ? 
 Because in different latitudes of earth 
 Our souls to stature grew ? 
 
 Whether because my grandsires gained their bread 
 
 From flinty, frugal soil amid the roar 
 Of ocean winds that rocked their cradle bed 
 And freedom's message bore; 
 
 But thine mid languorous airs of softer clime 
 
 Saw dusky faces at their bidding bend, 
 And learned the arts that in a feudal time 
 Do feudal graces lend ? 
 
66 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 Is it this force of Pilgrim blood in me 
 
 Gives my ideals a differing hue from thine? 
 To thee doth glow of age of chivalry 
 Make variant virtues shine ? 
 
 Were't possible all beauties to unite ? 
 
 Could thoughts antipodal sweet kinship feel ? 
 Is not swift impact sure the spark to light 
 When flint encounters steel ? 
 
 A hundred topics fire it. Large or small 
 
 The thought or theme, not one but seems to be 
 Close anchored to that central fact in all 
 Our nation's history, 
 
 The civil strife that gathered as it must 
 
 'Twixt social systems of opposing plan, 
 Contentious views of life's relations just 
 For man and fellow -man. 
 
 They say, " Let be! Bid vain dissensions rest. 
 Unearth no more dead issues. We are one." 
 What fools they be! The Present is impressed 
 With Past, though War be done. 
 
 As well forbid that earth's internal fires 
 Convulse again its surface, as pretend 
 That burning sentiments that roused our sires 
 Have met a buried end. 
 
SVNCS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 67 
 
 Nor were the fear to speak the honest thought 
 
 A fitting peace for comrades, but for foes, 
 Or chance acquaintance, whose communion naught 
 Save drear poHteness knows. 
 
 We read our father's record. At the word 
 
 Yankee am I, Confederate thou again. 
 To sudden zeal our sympathies are stirred 
 At prick of History's pen. 
 
 Yet is the jar all discord ? Or at most 
 
 Doth it but serve our angles to abrade, 
 And manifest mistakes, a mighty host, 
 Our sires in blindness made ? 
 
 No recreant I to truth because I see 
 
 Some rays that morning mist had erst concealed; 
 Base were it if with mounting sun should be 
 No clearer light revealed. 
 
 I see thy fathers dying without fear, 
 
 For what they deemed the right, resigning all, 
 Perplext in reasons, but with heart sincere 
 To follow Duty's call. 
 
 I view their courdy mien, the dauntless way 
 
 They slaughtered self a cherished cause to save, 
 Nor am I loth my tributes here to lay 
 On Lee's and Jackson's grave. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 But truly thou hast felt more strenuous change, 
 
 So much that seemed at variance with thy past 
 With courage hast accepted. Altered range 
 Of vistaed life thou hast. 
 
 And now, while o'er thy blood-stained soil again 
 
 New hopes, new energies, new joys unfold, 
 Thou knowest the fathers did not die in vain. 
 Nor would' st recall the old. 
 
 Costly the strife in blood and misery 
 
 And countless treasure both to South and North, 
 But a united land, fraternal, free. 
 
 Still costlier price were worth. 
 
 And loyal souls shall raise thanksgivings still 
 
 In future ages, that through unknown ways 
 And human weakness, God did work His will 
 And manifest His praise. 
 
 So friend, I shun thee not, nor fear to share 
 Past memories and hopes of future days, 
 Nor dread collision, if we freely dare 
 Differing deeds and ways. 
 
 No jar, but music, if in steadfast faith 
 
 And generous sympathy we give and take, 
 Nor fear that rudest fact that History saith 
 Could our leal friendship break. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 69 
 
 No need of foreign foe to make us clasp 
 
 Fraternal hands in common cause once more, 
 New aims and future issues tempt our grasp, 
 To these fling wide the door, 
 
 While East and West and Southland North unite 
 
 With all their sons, to Freedom's birthright true, 
 And build foundations of a future bright 
 O'er graves of Gray and Blue. 
 
 SONGS OF THE SOUTH. 
 
 CHEVALIER'S SONG. 
 
 A LAMENT for the good old days, 
 The age of the brave and the fair. 
 The times are disjointed, deceivers wax 
 strong, 
 While argument noisy displaceth the song. 
 And sophistries fill the air. 
 
 In heartbreak and blood Glory died. 
 
 We spared neither fortune nor life 
 In the boldest attempt that was ever begun 
 Against hazardous odds. But now it is done: 
 
 Peace reigneth after strife. 
 
70 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 We buried our hopeless Cause. 
 Yet memories sweet fill the mind 
 Of the old feudal life, of the sun that has set 
 On Chivalry's graces: while deepest regret 
 And devotion are left behind. 
 
 But the Past in the Future shall live. 
 
 The old order altereth fast; 
 Yet from ancestry noble alone can spring 
 A noble descent, and till death will we bring 
 
 Tributes meet to our hallowed Past. 
 
 THE YOUNGER SOUTH. 
 
 WITH eyes turned toward the morning 
 With garments girt for fray, 
 Decrepit issues scorning 
 He strideth forth to-day. 
 To new resources waking, 
 Mighty contingents staking, 
 He sees o'er all a coronal 
 
 Of fadeless oak and bay. 
 
 What though his wealth be scattered 
 
 And wounds of war still smart ? 
 Though cherished hopes lie shattered. 
 Loud sings his buoyant heart. 
 Life hath its resurrections. 
 And cheered by Hope's reflections 
 He boldly now records the vow 
 To act no coward's part. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 71 
 
 What if, though passion rages, 
 
 His heart should find this grace 
 To solve for all the ages 
 Vast problems of the race ? 
 If here he victory gaineth 
 And God's own truth maintaineth, 
 With highest claims 'mong conquerors' names 
 Shall his deserve a place. 
 
 BLACK MAN'S SONG. 
 
 FROM the land of the sun, sad victims of greed, 
 Our fathers were stolen away. 
 But the fruit of their grief, by the All- Wise de- 
 creed, 
 Is our strength and salvation to-day. 
 
 In this liberty land are we citizens born, 
 
 Her speech, her religion are ours; 
 The touch of the white man, though mingled with 
 scorn 
 
 Hath wakened our slumbering powers. 
 
 " The child of the bondwoman may not be heir 
 With the child of the free," they cried; 
 
 But a Christlier gospel pervadeth the air. 
 And its truths shall forever abide. 
 
72 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 We are coming undaunted, our heirloom to take; 
 
 O brothers more blest, give us time, 
 View with patience our faults and assist us to make 
 
 Through struggle a record sublime. 
 
 Who knoweth what mission awaiteth us here 
 For the land that in common we love ? 
 
 Who can say what achievement in us shall appear 
 That the world's great adjustments shall move ? 
 
 "SANDHILLERS." 
 
 BROWN jeans, cotton gown. 
 Pipe in mouth, they come to town, 
 Dull eye, cheek of tawn. 
 Two-wheeled cart by ' '' critter ' ' drawn. 
 
 Hawk their wares — (or beg, alas) 
 "Berries, 'lightwood,' sassafras," 
 Barely live, — no higher aim, — 
 Son and grandson still the same. 
 
 Do they love ? Do they hate ? 
 Do they choose this dull estate ? 
 Have they hopes ? Have they fears ? 
 Joys or griefs to mark the years ? 
 
 Why such lot ? In feudal days 
 Outcast they from social ways. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 73 
 
 Sterile soil — life alone — 
 Slave nor master did they own. 
 
 What the end ? Is for these 
 Newborn South of prophecies ? 
 Or will fate soon or late 
 Total type exterminate ? 
 
 JEFFERSON DAVIS, DECEMBER iith, 1889. 
 
 THE Southland mourns. With dirge of tolling 
 bell 
 And bated breath 
 Devoted millions to the nations tell 
 That war's defeat their homage could not quell 
 For chieftain hushed in death. 
 
 Not to the stedfast valorous heart alone 
 
 Is tribute brought. 
 His name the synonym of glory flown, 
 Of fallen Cause which Southrons not disown, 
 
 For which their fathers fought. 
 
 In flower-strewn catafalque and thronging host 
 
 We seem to see 
 The tenuous wraith of issues that almost 
 The nation rent, that dire conclusions cost 
 
 In human destiny. 
 
74 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 To sift events of war not this the time, 
 
 Such History's task. 
 Whether his Hfe-devotion were a crime, 
 Or but the frustrate force of soul subHme 
 
 Let future ages ask. 
 
 To-day give sepuhure to Leader dead, 
 
 To warrior proved, 
 And scatter floral requiems o'er his head, 
 And deck his gray-robed form with white and red. 
 
 The banner that he loved. 
 
 But not the nation's ensign! 'Twere unmeet 
 
 Its folds to use 
 In hollow half-mast mockery to greet 
 Him who till death did clasp his proud defeat 
 
 And loyalty refuse. 
 
 Nor would he wish it. Throbs of tenderness 
 
 Beat in his breast 
 For Southland only. Then let clamor cease. 
 But give him what he loved. And may God's peace 
 
 Upon his ashes rest. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 75 
 
 HENRY W. GRADY. 
 
 DIED DEC. 23, li 
 
 SECESSION'S Chief just gone! And hark! 
 Again the knell 
 Of death! But on what shining mark 
 This missile fell! 
 Then^ strife unhealed gave sorrow scope; 
 To-day the new-born South laments a blighted hope. 
 
 With words of peace upon his lips 
 
 The soul went forth. 
 As bee from bloom the honey sips, 
 
 So South and North 
 Drink gentle thoughts this Christmas-tide 
 That Grady voiced with moving eloquence, — and 
 died. 
 
 But what prophetic vision flits ? 
 
 The South, long bound 
 By dominant ideas, like bits 
 
 Of iron round 
 One lodestone point, each separate spar 
 By one attraction held, yet bristling wide and far, — 
 
 Sudden they fall apart, their pact 
 At last o'ercome 
 
76 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 By subtle chemic powers that act 
 
 Resistless from 
 New mingling elements, and to our view 
 The solid unit falls to fuse in structure new. 
 
 Yet nay! Not chefnic force! Bend low 
 
 Thy listening ear 
 And hear the pulsing life-blood flow; 
 
 Soon shall appear 
 The new organic whole, each vital part 
 Feeling with each alike the nation's throbbing heart. 
 
 Should Southland faint despairing ? No. 
 
 The Ages cry 
 " Movements are more than men," and so 
 
 Though leader die, 
 God hath reserved resources still. 
 And through mysterious ways He works His sover- 
 eign will. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 77 
 
 MAGNOLIA. 
 
 THOU Grandiflora, lifting high 
 Symmetric branches 'gainst the sky, 
 Like a patrician in thy pride, 
 My window-pane beside, 
 MagnoUa! 
 
 Thy perfumed snow-white banners fling 
 Profuse and free the charms they bring, 
 And coral seed-cones scatter round 
 Their jewels on the ground, 
 Magnolia! 
 
 Thy polished leaf-whorls proudly wear 
 Each a perennial, courdy air 
 As if nor wind nor tempest could 
 Debase thy gentry-hood, 
 Magnolia! 
 
 In gentle clime thou hold'st thy place 
 A miracle of stately grace, 
 'Mong leafless boughs first envoy seen 
 Of tropic evergreen, 
 Magnolia! 
 
78 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 A SONG OF COTTON. 
 
 SOFT and feathery fibre white 
 Pressed in solid bale, 
 Substance for my garments light, 
 
 Thou dost tell a tale 
 Full of rich association 
 With the storied old plantation. 
 
 In the ante-bellum days 
 Was thy glory felt, 
 Ere the rush of modern ways 
 Had new rulings dealt. 
 Clumsy press and gin-house roomy 
 Signify thy history to me. 
 
 Chiefest wealth of Southern soil 
 
 Known to planters brave, 
 To thy culture given the toil 
 Of the humble slave; 
 Yet some things they had forgotten 
 When they called thee "Old King Cotton.' 
 
 Watch the glossy plants uprise, 
 
 In their vernal green, 
 Row on row before our eyes 
 
 Stretching fair and clean. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 79 
 
 Cotton fields in sandy settinj^ 
 
 Charm the eye, bright hopes begetting. 
 
 Opening blossoms, white to-day 
 
 Pink to-morrow morn, 
 Morrow after, fallen they 
 Withered and forlorn. 
 But the angled forms appearing 
 Prophesy of harvests nearing. 
 
 Brown and dry at last the field 
 
 As each bursting boll 
 Now begins its wealth to yield. 
 Beauty crowns the whole; 
 Feathery fleeces soft and clinging 
 O'er the earth a mande flinging. 
 
 Sable forms inured to toil 
 
 Soon are gathered here, 
 Each plucks out the snowy coil 
 Of the fibrous sphere. 
 Heaps the lint within his basket; 
 Gentler toil, he doth not ask it. 
 
 Staple short or staple long, 
 
 Fibre pure and cool, 
 Gleaming out in contrast strong 
 With his dusky wool, 
 Loosened bits around him hovering 
 Deck his rags with downy covering. 
 
So SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 Now at last the linty seeds 
 
 Gathered by the gin, 
 Go to serve a hundred needs 
 From their wealth within, 
 Wealth complete with naught of losing. 
 Every grain some worth infusing. 
 
 Hath the gathered crop a lien ? 
 
 Ah! if so I fear 
 Those rich gains that Hope hath seen, 
 Are doomed to disappear. 
 You will rue it, if you put your 
 Confidence in a cotton future. 
 
 But younger Southrons all around 
 
 In whose heart of youth 
 Is no cotton fibre found 
 Rule the age, in truth. 
 Southern factories now are showing 
 A new life for cotton growing. 
 
 Busy hands to labor lent 
 
 Here fresh openings find. 
 Stalwart hearts with brave intent 
 Leave worn ways behind. 
 A regal age shall Faith determine 
 Graced by summer's robe of ermine. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 A FATWOOD FIRE. 
 
 THE kings of the forest bit by bit 
 On my brick-laid hearth into ashes expire, 
 While nursing my fancies I dreamily sit 
 Feeding my fatwood fire. 
 
 Great bunches of ''lighters" by country-folk 
 brought, 
 
 And sold at the doorway of every buyer. 
 Concentrated richness, eagerly sought, 
 
 A cheap and luxurious fire. 
 
 These turpentine juices, saved from the still. 
 In great tongue-flashes leap higher and higher, 
 
 My room's dusky corners to people and fill 
 With ghosts from a lightwood fire; 
 
 While healing and fragrance and brightness and 
 heat, 
 
 And deep satisfaction for human desire, 
 And strength and repose of the spirit do meet 
 
 In the blaze of a fatwood fire. 
 
82 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 MY MOCKING-BIRD. 
 
 NO prison cage contains my bird. 
 In a leafless water-oak tree 
 With mistletoe hung he whistles and sings, 
 A hundred quirks has he, 
 Trilling, swelling, 
 Clear out-welling. 
 Loud sings the mocking-bird, loud sings he, 
 To a listening world from the old oak tree. 
 
 From the selfsame perch each early spring, 
 
 No matter who may hear, 
 He pipes his joyous carolling, 
 I hearken and draw near, 
 Stealthy, spying. 
 His form descrying. 
 But his modest plumage I scarce can see 
 On the topmost bough of the tall oak tree. 
 
 What meaning hath this medley strain ? 
 
 Blithe notes of lark and jay, 
 Of robin, red -bird, oriole, thrush, 
 Mixed in delightful way ? 
 In new surprises 
 The music rises. 
 But what cares the mocking-bird, what cares he 
 This reveller gay in the old oak tree ? 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 83 
 
 Yet changeful songster, tell me true, 
 
 Dost glv^e but mocking sound ? 
 Surely thine own heart passions seek 
 For utterance profound. 
 Loving, adoring, 
 His soul out-pouring, 
 With pathos and merriment still sings he, 
 My mocking-bird hid in the old oak tree. 
 
 HERO WORSHIP. 
 
 LEAVE us our heroes. Doth stern Truth demand 
 ' The ruthless razure of each brave ideal ? 
 May History's page reflect a perfect Real? 
 Must not the fragment for completeness stand ? 
 
 Can we afford to miss the inspiring sight 
 Of man's divinest deed in loftiest mood ? 
 What else doth stimulate to love of good 
 
 Like soaring fellow-soul in highest flight ? 
 
 Were photograph distinct in noonday glare, 
 Each spot by fiercest light more obvious still, 
 Truer than artist touch that limns with skill 
 
 The softer outline seen through mellower air ? 
 
84 SOA'GS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 Stay! Though iconoclast in furious mood 
 Shatter the shrine of fact with fancy blent, 
 Is it so grievous ? Man was never meant 
 
 To worship man. The Lord alone is good. 
 
 It were not ill that we the lesson learn 
 
 Of human lack and frailty. Truth with Love 
 Dwelleth unstained alone in realms above, 
 
 Whereto our humbled souls devoutly turn. 
 
 Though earthly gods may fall in fate's reverse, 
 E'en while we kneel, behold them close beside, 
 Lifting heart homage to the Glorified — 
 
 Heroes no more, but fellow-worshippers. 
 
 w 
 
 DENIAL. 
 
 ITH youth, health, honors, life was crowned. 
 While friends and fortune smiled around, 
 Yet barrenness of joy he found — 
 
 " One boon, one only boon, I crave. 
 
 All else relinquish this to have, 
 
 But wanting, better were the grave." 
 
 In vain his strivings fierce and hot, 
 Nor could bestowment bless his lot, 
 ' TwdiS poiso7i, — And he knew it not. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 85 
 
 THE BRIDE. 
 
 SHE turned away from flower and gift and kiss 
 To childhood's nursery; 
 And low reclining on her infant bed, 
 E'en while her cup o'erflowed with life's best bliss 
 A silent tear she shed 
 For her lost liberty. 
 
 BEAUTY'S SERVICE. 
 
 IN the garden of Beauty I wandered with deep'n- 
 ing delight 
 Till the pathway divergent revealed to my won- 
 dering sight 
 Even Beauty herself, in glorious presence advancing, 
 And I, into ecstasy thrilled by the vision entrancing, 
 Before her in worship fell prone, 
 '* O goddess," I cried, " I will render thee ever 
 My homage devout, and enthrone 
 Thy form in my bosom forever." 
 
 But with gesture of mild rebuke she put all my 
 
 proffers by. 
 " See that thou do it not; for thy fellow servant am 
 
 I." 
 
86 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 Amazeful I cried: "Nay, service belongeth to 
 
 commoner creatures. 
 It would soil thy stainless robe and thy peerless 
 
 perfection flaw. 
 No touch of grosser use should harden the grace of 
 
 thy features. 
 Thou rulest a realm far other, thyself thine own end 
 
 and law." 
 But gently she waved me aside. 
 " Go question my flowers! " she replied. 
 
 So, faring onward, I traversed the garden labyrinth 
 
 over. 
 While round my steps, up-thronging, pressed 
 
 numberless blooms of clover; 
 A lawnful of grassy spirelets my hasty footsteps 
 
 were crushing; 
 Around me showered the petals of apple and peach- 
 blows blushing. 
 And, commingled with theirs, the voice of the 
 
 springing corn 
 From fields beyond to my ear by the breeze was 
 borne. 
 
 " O pass us not slightingly by," 
 With eager insistence they said, 
 '* Nor to Beauty our title deny 
 Because with utility wed." 
 
 "Ye are fair," I said coldly, "I grant it; but, 
 fairer by far, ye must own, 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 87 
 
 Are the flowerets that stoop not to use, but bloom 
 for delight alone." 
 
 Then an odorous whisper breathed o'er me from 
 blossoming orange boughs bending, 
 
 " Dost treat our sweet pureness with scorn, 
 
 Or forbid us the bride to adorn, 
 
 Because of the fruitage so luscious toward which all 
 our being is tending ? " 
 
 But I answered: " Each law hath exception. 
 
 And chiefly the fairest flowers 
 
 Know naught save their own perfection 
 
 And the blossoming of the bowers." 
 
 Then from heart of the roses faint waftures were 
 
 blown : 
 " Dost think that the roses no ministry own, 
 And in work for the weal of the world have no share 
 Because more subtle the missions we bear ? 
 If our beauty doth satisfy need 
 In the nature of man, canst thou know 
 How soon it may germinate seed 
 Which into high impulse shall grow ? ' ' 
 
 And the clustering lily-bells rang 
 
 In full chorus of fragrance and sang: 
 
 ' ' Fairest of all the fair charms the fairest among us 
 
 e'er nameth 
 Is the precious truth of the Master which ever our 
 
 vesture proclaimeth." 
 
88 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 Still I ventured, more humbly: " Once more let me 
 
 ask, 
 For buried in forests and hid in the clefts of the 
 
 mountains. 
 By desert winds blown and nourished from far-off 
 
 fountains, 
 There be myriad flowers tliat acknowledge nor use 
 
 nor task, 
 Apart from arena where right doth battle with 
 
 wrong, 
 I pray thee, doth ministry also to these belong?" 
 
 Then a mighty murmur arose. 
 
 As though great Nature's repose 
 
 Were aroused to a deep agitation; 
 
 The sand and the stones and all vegetation, 
 
 The insects, the beasts and the birds, 
 
 With one impulse their utterance lent. 
 
 And the winds gave soft modulation, 
 
 While ocean made rhythm, and the stars joined 
 
 with accent harmonious 
 The strain that swelled upward in cadence sympho- 
 
 nious. 
 Till at last in articulate words 
 The myriad voices were blent. 
 
 * * O Witless One, failest to learn 
 Creation's deep law ? Dost not see 
 How matter inert the floweret doth feed. 
 Which yieldeth in turn 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 89 
 
 Its sweets to the bee ? 
 
 The law to all being decreed, 
 
 To satisfy ever the need 
 
 Of some other. Naught liveth alone; 
 
 But in Nature's great Cosmos enlinked must be, 
 
 What prat' St thou of kingdom apart? 'Tis 
 
 unknown. 
 So Beauty true dignity findeth in sweet ministration. 
 And joineth the chorus that yields to the Ruler of 
 
 all adoration." 
 
 Then slowly I turned me to where I had seen 
 
 Beauty herself, so majestic in mien. 
 
 And lo! she was fallen a-kneeling, with uplifted 
 
 eyes; 
 And with strange surprise 
 My heart in silence confest 
 That of all her charms the best 
 Were not found in her features so faultless, nor yet 
 
 in her figure's grace. 
 But were gleams of a Heavenlier glory reflected in 
 
 her face. 
 
 MISUNDERSTOOD. 
 
 j/TpWAS not a stranger hand that smote, nor foe; 
 X 'Twas brother gave the blow. 
 Nor dealt in wrath, nor meant to wound me so, 
 He merely did not know. 
 
90 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 PERPLEXITY. 
 
 SPEAK plainer, voices echoing in my heart, 
 Your jargon's import pray reveal to me. 
 Swift impulse, duty, judgment, seem to be 
 But loud-mouthed wranglers in the busy mart; 
 Your differing becks make me to shrink and start. 
 Display your ensigns. Show authority 
 For what you speak, some grounded certainty 
 Of your inherent meanings pray impart. 
 I wait o'erwhelmed in all this strife and tangle 
 Of sophistry, — this endless clamorous fight. 
 O that escape or remedy were found! 
 I list, but still the noises jar and jangle. 
 When will the potent master-touch unite 
 These discords in one harmony of sound ? 
 
 APPRECIATION. 
 
 NOT praise undue, not censure more than meet, 
 Giveth my twin; 
 But gentle blame, well earned approval sweet, 
 Motive for action, courage in defeat, 
 And in my loftiest moods my soul doth greet 
 With thoughts akin. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 91 
 
 ANSWER. 
 
 HUSH, foolish heart, and cease thy bootless strife. 
 Thyself hath roused this turbulent anarchy 
 Of forces in thy being. 'Tis of thee 
 This wrangling jar, with din and clamor rift:. 
 Like broken string, like shivered lute or fife. 
 Like cleaving organ-stop, thy murmurings be 
 Discordant minglings in the harmony 
 Of the great orchestra thou callest Life. 
 
 Still thy wild outcries! Hush thy vain rebelling! 
 The heavenly overtones that now are drowned 
 In tumult, yield their cadence to the ears 
 That hearken rightly to the anthem swelling. 
 To souls accordant, no distracting sound 
 Marreth the music of the Eternal spheres. 
 
92 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 FULFILLMENT. 
 
 FINISHED at last, the work whereto I've given 
 My best for years, and striven 
 Not for self-glory, but because was laid 
 On me demand. I made 
 The final touch my rainbow quest. At last 
 Like a flash fulfillment passed — 
 Now weary, empty, purposeless, I ask 
 Is it gain or loss to count a finished task ? 
 
 THE LEGEND OF NINETY-SIX. 
 
 STRANGE and inspiring tales come faintly ringing 
 From Carolina's old colonial days. 
 That storied time its hazy mantle flinging 
 O'er white men's struggles and o'er Indian ways. 
 
 'Twere well our hearts should keep alive the story 
 That kind tradition treasureth from the past; 
 
 We gain new motive from the legends hoary 
 That round the tame To-day their halos cast. 
 
 Long years ago a band of English rovers 
 By the Saluda did their camp-fire fix. 
 
 Where among wooded hills and blossoming clovers 
 Lieth to-day the town of Ninety-Six. 
 
SONCS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 93 
 
 But soon on trade intent they left their station 
 
 To seek alliance with the Cherokee, 
 And smoked the calumet with that ancient nation, 
 
 Driven westward now by ruthless Destiny. 
 
 Thus met the Captain's son, young Allan Francis, 
 The dark -browed daughter of the savage King, 
 
 Noble Cateechee, — and mid glowing fancies 
 
 Both hearts were slain by Love's manoeuvering. 
 
 Homeward they came. But in the autumn waning 
 To slay the white-face planned the treacherous 
 Brave. 
 
 Cateechee, in her tent, deep slumber feigning. 
 Listened and whispered, "I'll my lover save." 
 
 Now for the love of Allan see her rushing, 
 
 Through wood and marsh, sun-heat and evening 
 damp. 
 
 The dewy ground her "silk-grass" mande brushing, 
 To warn the threatened ones within the camp. 
 
 The stretching miles her Indian instincts measure. 
 
 Through ninety-six her hasty footsteps fared 
 Unresting to the spot that held the treasure 
 
 For whose dear sake such perils she had dared. 
 
 Gaining the creek upon the southward lying, 
 Prostrate at last in deadly swoon she sank, 
 
 Young Allan saw and with a swift out-crying, 
 He threw himself beside her on the bank. 
 
94 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 Opened her eyes upon her trembling lover, 
 ** For you I dared it, and I've come to save 
 
 From death impending." Allan bent above her, 
 * ' My Princess. Love hath proved a conqueror 
 brave." 
 
 Now by Cateechee warned, with haste the grateful 
 And valiant English in the twilight toiled 
 
 For safe resistance, and at midnight fateful, 
 The Indian chieftain found his purpose foiled. 
 
 Then Allan took the maiden so devoted 
 To be his wife, and reared a dusky race. 
 
 And through the region was the story noted, 
 And the brave deed gave title to the place. 
 
 In later days came modern vandals hoping 
 To change by law the ancient honored name. 
 
 But a wise champion, with their purpose coping 
 Into the Senate room undaunted came, 
 
 Bearing aloft a strange device inwoven 
 
 Of figures "nine" and "six." In deep amaze 
 
 They heard his cry, "Behold my reasoning proven," 
 Inverting then, and turning devious ways, 
 
 Upward and downward, left and right, " Now mind 
 it! 
 North, South, or East or West, on either hand 
 Nothing but Ninety-Six can searching find it. 
 And for all time this name shall changeless stand." 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 95 
 
 Quiet the scene to-day, a peaceful village 
 Whose modest eye the landscape overlooks, 
 
 Evergreen canes and fruitful fields of tillage 
 Enlivened by a hundred sparkling brooks. 
 
 And Indian relics strewn the meadows over, 
 Old tomahawks and bits of pottery rude 
 
 Tell of the day Cateechee saved her lover 
 From dreadful death by loving fortitude. 
 
 Here let us pause and these old records ponder, 
 And in our minds and hearts their memory fix, 
 
 Around the star-shaped fort that loometh yonder, 
 And guards the village of old Ninety-Six. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER GADSDEN. 
 
 IN the borders of ancient Charles-Town 
 Where the Ashley River runs, 
 Round Christopher Gadsden gathered 
 Brave Carolina's sons, 
 And under a massive live-oak shade, 
 
 Gray-bearded patriarch tree, 
 They pledged the word and girded the sword 
 For the cause of Liberty. 
 
96 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 For tyranny's hand was heavy; 
 
 The dullest soul was stirred, 
 And the voice of bold resistance 
 
 To foreign rule was heard. 
 'Twas Massachusetts gave the call, 
 
 No stronger soul than she 
 Unto this day hath shaped the way 
 
 For a people's destiny. 
 
 But no second to the summons 
 
 From the faint-hearted came, 
 And the smoke of doubt was smothering 
 
 Bright Freedom's flickering flame; 
 The blaze that was kindled in Fanueil Hall 
 
 Was swiftly dying out 
 For want of a breath to keep it from death 
 
 In all the land about. 
 
 In that great crucial moment 
 
 Which tried the souls of men, 
 'Twas the voice of Christopher Gadsden 
 
 That pronounced for Union then; 
 From the dim Southern distance rang 
 
 His voice in resonant tone, 
 ' * What to one doth befall, belongeth to all, 
 
 We are one people alone." 
 
 Then from Hampshire hills to Georgia, 
 
 All the divided land. 
 Was moved by a mighty impulse 
 
 In fellowship to stand; 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 97 
 
 Yea, all the colonies in that day 
 
 With dauntless purpose rose 
 And gave their hands in brotherly bands 
 
 Against their country's foes. 
 
 First in New England highways 
 
 The blood of the brave was shed, 
 But Southern wastes and hillsides 
 
 With the last drops were red. 
 For the issues of Concord and Bunker Hill 
 
 The Puritans left their toil, 
 But at the last the die was cast 
 
 And won on Southern soil. 
 
 Ye have heard how in Carolina 
 
 The Patriot's Cause seemed lost ; 
 How ruthless through all her borders 
 
 Ravaged the Conquering host ; 
 How with stern restriction and treacherous oath 
 
 The souls that had striven to be free 
 In bondage they held, and to earth they felled 
 
 And burned that old Liberty tree. 
 
 No tree on History's pages 
 
 Hath better right, I wis, 
 No Charter Oak, nor Washington Elm 
 
 For lasting renown, than this ; 
 But though its glories all were shorn 
 
 And its site may no man see. 
 With reverence here I witness bear 
 
 To the fame of that Old Oak tree. 
 
98 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 Long lay the land in darkness, 
 
 Yet in mountain fastness and swamp, 
 
 Bold Partisans, true to their Country- 
 Kept burning Liberty's Lamp. 
 
 In shelterless famine these out-law bands 
 'Mong morasses that skirt the Pedee 
 
 Kept the pledge that they made 'neath the moss- 
 hung shade 
 Of Gadsden's Liberty tree. 
 
 Let the wrongs of the time be forgotten. 
 
 The hatred that oft did divide 
 As Tory and Whig, close kinsmen 
 
 Who should have fought side by side ; 
 But we'll lift our banners on each July 
 
 For all the ages to see. 
 While oration and bell triumphantly tell 
 
 Of the conflict that made us free. 
 
 And second to none in glory 
 
 Christopher Gadsden's name 
 Upon the patriot roll-call 
 
 Boasteth enduring fame — 
 Large-souled, unwavering, faultless, bold. 
 
 Lover of Country he. 
 Who spied afar the glorious star 
 
 Of Western liberty. 
 
 Still echoing down the ages 
 His voice in accent strong 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 99 
 
 Reminds us if grown faint-hearted 
 
 To unite against error and wrong, 
 To acknowledge now no East and no West, 
 
 No North and no South to see, 
 No Dixie — nay — nor New England to-day, 
 
 For Americans all are we. 
 
 SONNETS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 I. 
 
 LAND of the pine and cypress, where the shades 
 Of tropic forests that no seasons know 
 Are wed to heralds from the realms of snow; 
 Where blooms the laurel, while the jessamine braids 
 Its golden wreaths, and in dim everglades 
 Elegiac banners tremble to and fro; 
 Where dark palmettoes wave, and mistletoe 
 Gives waxen verdure when the summer fades ; 
 O land, wherein the mocker builds his nest 
 And chants his oracles, and loud adores. 
 Where silent marshes clasp the curving shores; 
 Thou gracious land, give us the largess blest 
 Of chosen souls who lean on Natures' breast 
 While in their ear her mysteries she pours. 
 
 II.' 
 
 In vernal hedgerows blooms the Eglantine, 
 And opening fleecy bolls and ripening maize 
 
lOo SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 Give wealthy glories to the summer days. 
 O'er wayside bush the fervid passion-vine 
 Its regal spray of mystic crowns doth twine. 
 Upon a sheltered bank, while fancy strays 
 Through purpling distances, we lie and gaze, 
 Such rare inheritance, O South, is thine. 
 Below, the river to the ocean runs. 
 
 And perfumed air and shimmering splendor lies 
 In feeless bounty 'neath benignant skies. 
 Thus reverent Nature sings her orisons 
 And shows her secrets to the anointed ones 
 Who win to read them with anointed eyes. 
 
 III. 
 
 A LAND of old renown on History's page, 
 Where storied Huguenot and Cavalier 
 Their missions blended ; where without a peer 
 
 Gay Chivalry doth boast his golden age : 
 
 Where beauteous women and brave men engage 
 Fond Memory's backward look and listening ear, 
 Though mingling sorrows start the ruthful tear 
 
 For all that marred the Southland heritage. 
 
 Yet sing its glory now with lute and lyre. 
 We bury but the dead. So let it be ! 
 The Past is safe ! With chastened gladness we 
 
 Will bid its virtues still the heart inspire. 
 
 Only the dross doth yield to furnace fire; 
 What ought to live hath immortality. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. loi 
 
 IV. 
 
 A LAND of nameless graves, where heroes sleep 
 In blue and gray; the sacred dust of those 
 Above whose mouldering bed the rank weed 
 grows, 
 
 And never moistened eyes may come to weep. 
 
 The dumb cold earth doth hide their secrets deep; 
 Its sealed, unpitying lips will ne'er disclose 
 This mortal pathos which no mortal knows. 
 
 Their God doth know, and He their souls will keep. 
 
 The loosened hand-clasp aching hearts still miss, 
 And thoughts of North and South do vainly turn 
 Unto these battle graves and vaguely yearn 
 
 For the last loving word, the final kiss. 
 
 But Mother Nature's heart most tender is, 
 
 And wreathes each resting-place with moss and 
 fern. 
 
 V. 
 
 Land of the Future! Lift thy forehead high! 
 As from the chamber lit by taper rays 
 With hidden corners where the shadow plays, 
 
 One goeth forth beneath the open sky 
 
 Of the vast firmament and sends his eye 
 Through starry spaces with a deep amaze, 
 So now a boundless vision meets thy gaze 
 
 In which the wings of faith unfettered fly. 
 
 The Future beckons. None shall say thee nay! 
 Go forth in large resolve with giant stride, 
 
I02 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 Nor in the folds of doubt thy talents hide. 
 The dawn of Hope triumphant beams to-day, 
 No gate, no caste, no creed shall bar its way. 
 
 God's purposes forever shall abide. 
 
 VI. 
 
 O MORNING Land! From dreaming slumbers wake! 
 
 High noon approacheth with occasion rare; 
 
 For nobler victories now thy strength prepare, 
 And every hindrance from thy shoulders shake. 
 The magic sword of truth now boldly take. 
 
 More than Excalibur in might, and dare 
 
 To wrestle with all wrong, and overbear 
 Each hindering foe, each chain of error break. 
 Thy moral manhood prove by noble fight; 
 
 Chivalric graces still the world doth need 
 
 For peaceful conquests over pride and greed. 
 Join then the tournament with armor bright, 
 And win thine honors as a gentle knight. 
 
 So shall thou boast a Chivalry indeed. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Peace be within thy borders! May the rude 
 Trumpet of War no more with blast malign 
 Disturb thy groves of laurel and of pine, 
 
 So verdant now in balmy quietude. 
 
 May lofty motive lower aims preclude, 
 
 And Bethlehem's echoing song with cadence fine 
 Inspire thy steadfast soul with love divine 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 103 
 
 And keep thee safe through fate's vicissitude. 
 In benison my voice I gladly lend. 
 
 May peaceful homes and fireside pleasures be 
 
 Thy cherished tokens of felicity. 
 O kindly land, with trustfulness, as friend, 
 Across thy hills and plains my prayers I send, 
 
 And give thee here my benedicite. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Thou larger land! Home of us all thou art! 
 Happy to-day that now the Cavalier 
 And Huguenot with Puritan draw near, 
 
 Hand clasped in hand and heart enlinked with heart. 
 
 Forgotten now be every vengeful smart, 
 
 And while we hold our native country dear, 
 May her wide bound proclaim in accents clear 
 
 That all mankind doth hold inherent part 
 
 In the All-Father's love and so hath claim 
 To human brotherhood; that all who fill 
 God's family may share the birthright still. 
 
 May largest loves add lustre to her fame 
 
 The while we hush the noise of strife and blame 
 In grateful songs of glory and goodwill. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Truly the new is older than the old. 
 
 It hath but slept awhile, enwrapped in mist, 
 But wakening earth the sunlight warm hath kissed, 
 
 And all the hills are decked in robes of gold. 
 
I04 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 Larger horizons now our eyes behold, 
 Delusive fogs no more our way resist, 
 The far-off future doth our hopes enlist 
 
 And lengthening vistas to our view unfold. 
 
 In vain in narrow bounds is knowledge pent; 
 
 When God gives light in vain our ways we hide, 
 Our finite wills check not the ocean tide. 
 
 Unto our wanderings truth can ne'er be bent, 
 
 But her straight bands of love and wisdom blent 
 Our rapt obedient souls will safely guide. 
 
 ALONG THE CONGAREE, 
 
 FROM Carolina's mountains 
 Wee springs and brooklets flow, 
 And join with rush and tumult 
 To wet the plains below. 
 Through sandhill and savanna 
 
 And where the millsites be 
 By quarried bluff and rockpile rough 
 Floweth the Congaree. 
 
 A noble group of v/aters 
 
 It rolls its sinuous tide 
 'Neath moss-encumbered forests 
 
 Where coon and " squinch-owl " hide. 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 105 
 
 We trace the map-line channels 
 
 Like a grim ancestral tree 
 Through wanderings vast to rest at last 
 
 In the bed of the still Santee. 
 
 A hundred years have vanished 
 
 Since moved the people's mind 
 For a noble capital city 
 
 The fitting site to find. 
 At fork where the brave Saluda 
 
 And tawny Broad we see 
 In marriage bands, Columbia stands 
 
 Upon the Congaree. 
 
 Nigh eighty years in beauty 
 
 With shaded avenue 
 And stately home and temple 
 
 The garden city grew. 
 Then one curst night in winter 
 
 (O God, that such could be) 
 Saw shot and shell and flames like hell 
 
 Along the Congaree. 
 
 But see, the phoenix city 
 
 Though hushed its life-pulse then, 
 From shroud of ashes proudly 
 
 Doth rear its crest again. 
 Fair as of old, nay, fairer, 
 
 No slave-mart now we see 
 To soil with stain of sinful gain 
 
 The untainted Congaree. 
 
io6 SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 
 
 From peaceful hill of sunset 
 
 We gaze with ravished eyes 
 Where granite pile and church spire 
 
 Half hid in verdure rise. 
 The mists creep o'er the valley 
 
 Where the rocky Congaree 
 Doth rippling flow to greet below 
 
 Its twin, the Wateree. 
 
 Or, covered bridge-way crossing 
 
 We pause where loud alarms 
 The trembling city menaced 
 
 From camps of men in arms. 
 War, charged with freedom's message. 
 
 Made scars that still we see 
 On the massive wall of the State House tall 
 
 Beyond the Congaree. 
 
 But sounds of peace now mingle 
 
 With the river's murmuring flow, 
 Along its green embankments 
 
 The corn and cotton grow, 
 Canal and farm and traflic 
 
 In common toil agree. 
 And whirring mill doth work its will 
 
 With the idle Congaree. 
 
 Thus rolls a lusty river 
 
 In shade and sunny gleam 
 Through meadow and where rock-ledge 
 
 Deflects the tortuous stream, 
 
SONGS OF THE SOUTHLAND. 107 
 
 To seek its last abiding 
 
 Near where the Great Pedee 
 Doth find its way through Winyah Bay . 
 
 Into the restless sea. 
 
 Now to its fertile basin 
 
 May sun and shower be kind, 
 Great Heaven all ills forefending; 
 
 And may the future find 
 From springs on Tryon Mountain 
 
 And source of Ennoree 
 From Alpine height to beachline white, 
 
 A people wise and free. 
 
 And let all murmu rings craven 
 
 Within these borders cease. 
 And in all hearts be mirrored 
 
 The river's strength and peace. 
 Joys felt are ours forever, 
 
 And each of us will be 
 Forever glad for joys we've had 
 
 Beside the Congaree. 
 
lit 
 
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