In Southern climes some years ago,
Where dwelt unhappy slaves,
Ere Mercy’s had had snapped their chains,
Where freedom’s banner waves.
A negro for some slight offense
His master’s wrath incurred;
So in a shanty he was lodged
For punishment deferred.
The shades of night had all enwrapt,
And silence reigned supreme;
The prisoner, on the cabin floor,
Lay in a troubled dream.
He dreamed the fatal morn had come;
He heard the dread command;
He saw the strong armed negro there,
With the dread whip in hand.
He startled from his troubled sleep,
And scanned the shanty round;
Just then a star began to peep,
And lo—a flaw was found!
With ‘bated breath he listened long,
But not a sound was heard;
Until, while working at the roof,
The shanty rafters stirred.
A minute more he’s on the roof,
He takes a fearful bound,
And risks the leap amid the gloom,
But lights upon the ground.
And fear lends strength unto his feet,
As onward now he speeds,
O’er barren waste; through tangled brake;
Through bogs of wiry weeds.
A swollen stream he bravely breasts,
Then mounts the rocky steep;
His weary limbs a while he rests
In slumber cairn and deep.
The sun now gilds the eastern hills
And ushers in the day,
The negro wakes, regains his feet;
And hastens on his way.
Well nigh exhausted though he be,
He does not heed the toil;
He knows that in a few more miles
He’ll be on British soil.
Can he but gain a well-known spot,
Where British waters lave
Its grassy banks;—he knows full well,
He’ll be no more a slave.
Once more he-rests his weary limbs
Full length upon the ground.
Why does he start? Alas! the hears
A too familiar sound.
He springs upon his feet again,
His mind upon the rack;
He speeds as one who runs for life,
The hounds are on his track!
They’re coming nearer. On he speeds.
Dread thoughts his spirit flood.
He knows the hounds will never rest
Till they have had his blood.
And swift he bounds across the plain,
With terror-stricken face,
He hears the baying of the dogs;
They gain on him apace.
A sudden thought comes o’er his mind,
He stops,—regains his breath,
The question soon must settled be,
Will it be life or death?
Again the dreaded sound; he hears
The dogs upon his wake,
He knows ere he can reach the stream
Must surely overtake.
He has a knife somewhere concealed,
He opes the keen, bright blade,
And o’er his left extended arm,
A deep broad gash is made.
And, drop by drop, lets fall the blood,
Regardless of the pain,
Then takes some tattered bit of dress
And binds his arm again.
And gathers up his strength once more,
And runs with all his might,
For lo! —the master and his dogs
Have fallen on his sight.
He seeks the stream! he rushes on,
But e’er he reached the flood,
The hounds, the master at their heels,
Have gathered round the blood!
The master coaxes,—beats his dogs;
Persistently they stay
Around the little pool of blood,
Nor will they move away.
The race is o’er, the stream is reached,
He fears the dogs no more,
With one bold plunge he’s in the stream,
And soon he gains the shore.
His feet are now on British soil,
He’s under friendly care,
No wrathful slaver and his dogs
Can ever harm him there.
Christ’s precious blood has ransomed me,
From Satan’s mighty hand,
And through each day, where’er I stray,
‘Tis by His grace I stand.
I cleave to Him with all my heart,
And take Him all my care,
For well I know the mighty foe
Can never harm me there.
Be this my joy, whate’er the trial,
Of prison, fire or sword;
Whatever foes beset my path,
My Refuge is the Lord.
ML 06/23/1912