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[74] The land is wild with fear and hate,
     The rout runs mad and fast;
From hand to hand, from gate to gate,
     The flaming brand is passed.

The lurid glow falls strong across
     Dark faces broad with smiles;
Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss,
     That fire yon blazing piles.

With oar-strokes timing to their song,
     They weave in simple lays
The pathos of remembered wrong,
     The hope of better days--

The triumph-note that Miriam sung,
     The joy of uncaged birds;
Softening with Afric's mellow tongue
     Their broken Saxon words.

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Saxon (1)
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