From mossy woods and cypress bolls [@3sic@1], The swimming snakes have sought their holes; On heavy wing the night-owl flits, With drooping head the vulture sits, And down the bayou's sultry tide I hear the stealthy cayman glide. I weary of these orange-blooms, And tuneless birds with gorgeous plumes, And white magnolia's sweet attaint, Whereof the honeyed air grows faint; I weary of this golden cane, This silvery cotton -- and this chain! The iron chain -- the rusted chain, That manacles each fruitful plain; That binds the woodland and the sward -- That binds the laborer and the lord! -- It wearies soul -- it wearies strength: I think it wearies Heaven, at length! Dear Heaven! this green and fertile mead -- These fields, that swell with pregnant seed; These orchards ripe and gardens rare, And sunlit skies and fragrant air; This broad domain that Freedom craves -- Why must it be the House of Slaves? The red oaks lift their vernal sheen -- The cypress waves in lustrous green; But underneath lies withering bark, Where creeps the swamp-moss, gray and stark, And chokes the sweet life where it hangs -- Fit type of Slavery's deathful fangs! I marvel oft, if shames distil From lands that nurse no rippling rill; If wrongs must still oppress these leas, Because they feel no upland breeze; If slaves must breed in swamp and fen, While hill-tops suckle freeborn men! No, Freedom! no! -- thy generous veins Can flood with life these sluggish plains; Thy breath, that lifts our flags to God, Shall quicken all this servile sod: All dead things shall thy voice obey, And rise, like Lazarus, from decay! From Texas and to Hampshire snow, Five hundred thousand bayonets glow! I cannot think these Northern knives Can e'er be forged to Southern gyves; Or they that wield them -- freeborn men -- Will build the House of Slaves again! I draw my sword, and poise the blade -- I feel no manly strength decayed: I swing it through yon palmy sedge -- It smites -- it bites -- with warlike edge! It cuts as well -- this freedom-brand -- In Southern as in Northern land! I kiss my sword, and gripe [@3sic@1] the hilt -- I think of blood for Union spilt: Beneath my flag of stars I stand -- I lift this steel blade in my hand, And swear that all this land is free! -- O God! break not mine oath for me! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BARMAID AND THE ALEXANDRITE by KAREN SWENSON SONNET: INSCRIPTION FOR A PORTRAIT OF DANTE by GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO LEINSTER by LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY SOMEBODY'S DARLING by MARIE LA CONTE AMERICA by JAMES MONROE WHITFIELD MOUNTAIN PICTURES: 2. MONADNOCK FROM WACHUSETT by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER |