THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP
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n dark fens of the Dismal SwampThe hunted Negro lay;He saw the fire of the midnight camp,And heard at times a horse's trampAnd a bloodhound's distant bay. Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine,In bulrush and in brake;Where waving mosses shroud the pine,And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vineIs spotted like the snake; Where hardly a human foot could pass,Or a human heart would dare,On the quaking turf of the green morassHe crouched in the rank and tangled grass,Like a wild beast in his lair. A poor old slave, infirm and lame;Great scars deformed his face;On his forehead he bore the brand of shame,And the rags, that hid his mangled frame,Were the livery of disgrace. All things above were bright and fair,All things were glad and free;Lithe squirrels darted here and there,And wild birds filled the echoing airWith songs of Liberty! On him alone was the doom of pain,From the morning of his birth;On him alone the curse of CainFell, like a flail on the garnered grain,And struck him to the earth!
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