The master knew of our danger well, We also knew--we knew. His greed for profits had served him well, But he over-reached him, as fate befell, And I alone am left to tell, Death's horrors I lived through The master dreamed, mayhap, of his gold, But we were awake--awake, Buried alive in the black earth's mold; And some who yet could a pencil hold, Wrote till their hands in death grew cold, For wife or sweetheart's sake. Letters they wrote of farewell--farewell, To mother, sweetheart, wife: What words of comfort could they tell-- Comfort for those who loved them well, Up from the jaws of the earth's black hell That was crushing out their life. The master cursed, as masters do-- Good right had he, good right! But the fear of our vengeance stirred him, too; He sailed, with some of his pirate crew, To Europe, and reveled a year or two; Great might has he--great might! Romance BY SEYMOUR DEMING (Contemporary American writer) The old idea of romance: The country boy goes to the city, marries his employer's daughter, enslaves some hundreds of his fellow humans, gets rich, and leaves a public library to his home town. The new idea of romance: To undo some of the mischief done by the old idea of romance. The Soul's Errand BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH (Written by the English soldier and statesman, 1552-1618, just before his execution) Go, Soul, the body's guest, Upon a thankless errand; Fear not to touch the best; The truth shall be thy warrant: Go, since I needs must die, And give them all the lie. Go tell the Court it glows And shines like rotten wood; Go tell the Church it shows What's good, but does no good: If Court and Church reply Give Court and Church the lie. Tell Potentates they live Acting, but oh! their actions; Not loved, unless they give, Nor strong but by their factions: If Potentates reply, Give Potentates the lie. Tell men of high condition, That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition; Their practice only hate: And if they do reply, Then give them all the lie.... Tell Physic of her boldness; Tell Skill it is pretension; Tell Charity of coldness; Tell Law it is contention: And if they yield reply, Then give them all the lie.... So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing; Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing: Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the Soul can kill. December 31st BY LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE (Contemporary English poet) What is he hammering there, That devil swinking in Hell? Oh, he forges a cunning New Year, God knows he does it well.