Ye float in dusky files, forever croaking. Ye chill our manhood with your dreary shade. Dumb in the dark, not even God invoking, We lie in chains, too weak to be afraid. O Raven days, dark Raven days of sorrow, Will ever any warm light come again? Will ever the lit mountains of To-morrow Begin to gleam athwart the mournful plain? ____ Prattville, Alabama, February, 1868. Our Hills. Dear Mother-Earth Of Titan birth, Yon hills are your large breasts, and often I Have climbed to their top-nipples, fain and dry To drink my mother's-milk so near the sky. O ye hill-stains, Red, for all rains! The blood that made you has all bled for us, The hearts that paid you are all dead for us, The trees that shade you groan with lead, for us! And O, hill-sides, Like giants' brides Ye sleep in ravine-rumpled draperies, And weep your springs in tearful memories Of days that stained your robes with stains like these! Sleep on, ye hills! Weep on, ye rills! The stainers have decreed the stains shall stay. They chain the hands might wash the stains away. They wait with cold hearts till we "rue the day". O Mother-Earth Of Titan birth, Thy mother's-milk is curdled with aloe. -- Like hills, Men, lift calm heads through any woe, And weep, but bow not an inch, for any foe! Thou Sorrow-height We climb by night, Thou hast no hell-deep chasm save Disgrace. To stoop, will fling us down its fouled space: Stand proud! The Dawn will meet us, face to face, For down steep hills the Dawn loves best to race! Laughter in the Senate. In the South lies a lonesome, hungry Land; He huddles his rags with a cripple's hand; He mutters, prone on the barren sand, What time his heart is breaking. He lifts his bare head from the ground; He listens through the gloom around: The winds have brought him a strange sound Of distant merrymaking. Comes now the Peace so long delayed? Is it the cheerful voice of Aid? Begins the time his heart has prayed, When men may reap and sow? Ah, God! Back to the cold earth's breast! The sages chuckle o'er their jest; Must they, to give a people rest, Their dainty wit forego? The tyrants sit in a stately hall; They jibe at a wretched people's fall; The tyrants forget how fresh is the pall Over their dead and ours. Look how the senators ape the clown, And don the motley and hide the gown, But yonder a fast-rising frown On the people's forehead lowers. ____ 1868. Baby Charley. He's fast asleep. See how, O Wife, Night's finger on the lip of life Bids whist the tongue, so prattle-rife, Of busy Baby Charley. One arm stretched backward round his head, Five little toes from out the bed Just showing, like five rosebuds red, -- So slumbers Baby Charley. Heaven-lights, I know, are beaming through Those lucent eyelids, veined with blue, That shut away from mortal view Large eyes of Baby Charley.