The Bondwoman’S Dream

The slave with sickle reaped the wheat, Then wearily limped among the stooks; But not to rest, Her little son she sought Who wakened crying in cool nest among the sheaves. His swaddled limbs unwrapped she nourished him, Then, dandling him a moment fell asleep. In dreams she saw her little son, Her Johnny, grown to man, handsome and rich. No lonely bachelor but a married man In freedom it seemed, no longer the landlord’s but his own man. And in their own joyous field his wife and he reaped their own wheat, Their children brought their food. The poor thing laughed in her sleep, Woke up— a dream indeed it was. She looked at Johnny, picked him up and swaddled him, And back to her allotted task; Sixty stooks her stint. Perhaps the last of the sixty it was: God grant it. And God grant this dream of thine may be fulfilled.

TO THE MAKERS OF SENTIMENTAL IDYLS.

Did you but know, fine dandy, The people’s life of misery You would not use such pretty phrases, Nor give to God such empty praises. At our tears you’re laughing, And our sorrows chaffing, Slave’s cot in a shady spot— You call it heaven! Rot! I lived once in such a shanty, Of childhood’s tears I shed a plenty, In bitter sorrows we were wise, Home that you call paradise.

No paradise I call thee, Little cottage in the wood, With the water pure beside thee Close by the village rude! There my mother bore me, Singing she tended me; My child’s heart drank in her pain.

Cottage in the shady dell, Heaven outside, inside hell; But slavery there, with labor weary, Nor time for prayer in life so dreary.

My mother good to her early grave Was hurled by sorrows wave on wave.

The father weeping o’er his young, (little and naked were we), Sank ’neath the weight of fated wrong And died in slavery. The children, we, of home bereft Like little mice ’mong neighbors crept.

Water drawer was I at school, My brothers toiled ’neath landlord’s rule.

For my sisters an evil fate must be, Though little doves they seemed to me; Into life as serfs they’re born, And die they must in that lot forlorn.

I shudder yet, where’er I roam, When I think of life in that village home.

Evil-doers, Oh God, are we, An earthly heaven we had from Thee, Turned it into hell have we, And a second heaven is now our plea.

Gently we live with our brothers now, With their lives our fields we plough; Fields that with their tears are wet, And yet— What do we know? yet it seems as if Thou! (For without Thy will Should we suffer ill?) Dost Thou, Oh Father in heaven holy Laugh at us the poor and lowly? Advise with them of noble birth How so cleverly to rule the earth?

For see the woods their branches waving, And there beyond, the white pool gleaming And willows o’er the water bending, Garden of Eden it is in sooth, But of its deeds enquire the truth.

This wondrous earth should tell a story Of endless joy, and praise, and glory To Thee, Oh God, unique and holy. Unhallowed spot, Whence praise comes not! A world of tears where curses rise, To heaven above the hopeless skies.