The Fugitive

          Wanderers! speeding on amain 
From the gory southern plain, 
Scarred with many a seamy gash
By the cruel driver's lash, 
Toiling through the tangled fern 
To the marshes low and dern, 
Guided onward by the sure 
Undeceiving cynosure,—
God be with thee, stricken one!
Till thy weary race is run.
On and on, away, away!
Hiding from the light of day 
In the caverns of the wild, 
Where the hissing adder coiled;
And when evening comes again
Peering from thy murky den:
Speed thee well, and forward press 
Through the tangled wilderness;
Liberty thy toil shall bless 
With her loving kindnesses.

Hark! the jar of distant sounds!
"Tis the man-thief, and his hounds!
No, it was the sounding gale, 
Swelling froth the wooded vale.
Ha! that flashing! where the breeze 
Swayed the branches of the trees;
‘Tis the polished rifle's gleam!
No, 'tis but the moon-lit stream.
Brother! trembling and afraid, 
Onward! heaven shall be thy aid.

Guardian angels from above, 
Over thee have watched in love;
Scourge and fetters crimson dyed, 
Forests long, and rivers wide,
Teeth of hound, and dagger's blade, 
Swamp, and trackless everglade,—
All the terrors of thy path
Flying from the spoiler's wrath,—
They are left behind, and thou 
Art Jehovah's freeman now.

Rest thee, Pilgrim, for awhile, 
Where our hearths of plenty smile;
We will guard thee from the mouth 
Of the rav'sing[sic] blood-hound South;
Save thee from the sateless jaw, 
And hyena-fangs of Law;
Till thy bleeding heart hath found
Healing for its every wound,
And the light of joy shall shine
On that troubled soul of thine.

Pilgrim! rest awhile, and then 
We will speed thee on again, 
Far beyond Niagara's roar,
Where the robber's reign is o'er, 
And the Lion plucks away 
From the Eagle’s paw her prey; 
There, ‘neath England's banner folds,
Man the right of manhood holds, 
And the black man, long oppressed, 
Finds at last a home of rest.