We dare not share the negro's trust,
Nor yet his hope deny;
We only know that God is just,
And every wrong shall die.
Rude seems the song; each swarthy face,
Flame-lighted, ruder still;
We start to think that hapless race
Must shape our good or ill;
That laws of changeless justice bind
Oppressor with oppressed;
And, close as sin and suffering joined,
We march to Fate abreast.
Sing on, poor hearts! your chant shall be
Our sign of blight or bloom,--
The Vala-song of Liberty,
Or death-rune of our doom!
FREMONT'S HUNDRED DAYS IN MISSOURI.
II.
_Camp Haskell, October 24th._ We have marched twelve miles to-day, and
are encamped near the house of a friendly German farmer. Our cortege has
been greatly diminished in number. Some of the staff have returned to
St. Louis; to others have been assigned duties which remove them from
head-quarters; and General Asboth's division being now in the rear, that
soldierly-looking officer no longer rides beside the General, and the
gentlemen of his staff no longer swell our ranks.
As we approach the enemy there is a marked change in the General's
demeanor. Usually reserved, and even retiring,--now that his plans
begin to work out results, that the Osage is behind us, that the
difficulties of deficient transportation have been conquered, there is
an unwonted eagerness in his face, his voice is louder, and there is
more self-assertion in his attitude.
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