Randolph of Roanoke

O MOTHER EARTH! upon thy lapThy weary ones receiving,And o'er them, silent as a dream,Thy grassy mantle weaving,Fold softly in thy long embraceThat heart so worn and broken,And cool its pulse of fire beneathThy shadows old and oaken.

Shut out from him the bitter wordAnd serpent hiss of scorning;Nor let the storms of yesterdayDisturb his quiet morning.Breathe over him forgetfulnessOf all save deeds of kindness,And, save to smiles of grateful eyes,Press down his lids in blindness.

There, where with living ear and eyeHe heard Potomac's flowing,And, through his tall ancestral trees,Saw autumn's sunset glowing,He sleeps, still looking to the west,Beneath the dark wood shadow,As if he still would see the sunSink down on wave and meadow.Bard, Sage, and Tribune! in himself

All moods of mind contrasting,--The tenderest wail of human woe,The scorn like lightning blasting;The pathos which from rival eyesUnwilling tears could summon,The stinging taunt, the fiery burstOf hatred scarcely human!

Mirth, sparkling like a diamond shower,From lips of life-long sadness;Clear picturings of majestic thoughtUpon a ground of madness;And over all Romance and SongA classic beauty throwing,And laurelled Clio at his sideHer storied pages showing.

All parties feared him: each in turnBeheld its schemes disjointed,As right or left his fatal glanceAnd spectral finger pointed.Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it downWith trenchant wit unsparing,And, mocking, rent with ruthless handThe robe Pretence was wearing.

Too honest or too proud to feignA love he never cherished,Beyond Virginia's border lineHis patriotism perished.While others hailed in distant skiesOur eagle's dusky pinion,He only saw the mountain birdStoop o'er his Old Dominion!

Still through each change of fortune strange,Racked nerve, and brain all burning,His loving faith in Mother-landKnew never shade of turning;By Britain's lakes, by Neva's tide,Whatever sky was o'er him,He heard her rivers' rushing sound,Her blue peaks rose before him.

He held his slaves, yet made withalNo false and vain pretences,Nor paid a lying priest to seekFor Scriptural defences.His harshest words of proud rebuke,His bitterest taunt and scorning,Fell fire-like on the Northern browThat bent to him in fawning.

He held his slaves; yet kept the whileHis reverence for the Human;In the dark vassals of his willHe saw but Man and Woman!No hunter of God's outraged poorHis Roanoke valley entered;No trader in the souls of menAcross his threshold ventured.

And when the old and wearied manLay down for his last sleeping,And at his side, a slave no more,His brother-man stood weeping,His latest thought, his latest breath,To Freedom's duty giving,With failing tengue and trembling handThe dying blest the living.

Oh, never bore his ancient StateA truer son or braverNone trampling with a calmer scornOn foreign hate or favor.He knew her faults, yet never stoopedHis proud and manly feelingTo poor excuses of the wrongOr meanness of concealing.

But none beheld with clearer eyeThe plague-spot o'er her spreading,None heard more sure the steps of DoomAlong her future treading.For her as for himself he spake,When, his gaunt frame upbracing,He traced with dying hand "Remorse!"And perished in the tracing.

As from the grave where Henry sleeps,From Vernon's weeping willow,And from the grassy pall which hidesThe Sage of Monticello,So from the leaf-strewn burial-stoneOf Randolph's lowly dwelling,Virginia! o'er thy land of slavesA warning voice is swelling!

And hark! from thy deserted fieldsAre sadder warnings spoken,From quenched hearths, where thy exiled sonsTheir household gods have broken.The curse is on thee,--wolves for men,And briers for corn-sheaves givingOh, more than all thy dead renownWere now one hero living