[185]
A Fugitive poem.
I wish to conclude this record of my second trip with an anti-slavery poem, written by my noble and gifted friend, William North, during the contest on the repeal of the Missouri Compromise, at the time when John Mitchel, of unhappy memory, gave utterance to his longings for a “plantation in Alabama, well stocked with fine fat negroes.” It is indelibly associated in my memory with the recollections of my long journey; for often, when alone, I repeated it aloud in the pineries of North Carolina, and the cotton and rice fields of Georgia and Alabama. It is entitled--Nebraska.
I.
There's a watchword, weak and timid,
Watchword which the gods despise,
Which in dust the poet tramples,
And that word is — Compromise!
Word of spirits, feeble, fallen,
Creed of dollars and of cents,
Prayer to the Prince of Darkness,
From a craven army's tents.
II.
Let an Irish renegado,
Born a slave of slavish race,
Bend before the Southern Baal,
In his mantle of disgrace:
He who turned his back on honor,1
Well may cringe to slavers grim,
Well may volunteer to rivet
Fetters on the negro's limb.
