THE OLD FREEDMAN.
HE sits in front of the bright, blazing grate; A poor old freedman, maimed and gray; With worn hands folded, he sits and waits, His Master's summons, from day to day. His ebon brow is seamed deeply with care; His dim eyes, robbed of their scanty sight, By the dazzling red of the ember's glare, Sets him to dreaming as though 'twere night.
And his hard, early life comes, scene by scene, As acts appear on a play-house stage; While he sits with a thoughtful smile, serene, And views the past, in a dreamy maze. Yes, now he can smile as he thinks on those days, For the fire of youth has long fled his breast; He has cast the burden of past cares away, And humbly looks to his Master, for rest.
He hears the fierce screams of his mother, wild, Anguished and startling, and loud as of old; While haplessly he, her remaining child, Is hurried "down the river," and sold.