The Fugitive

“Ye shall torture no more with the scourge and the chain,
For the fetter which bound me is broken in twain;
And I leave you its links with the blood rust thereon,
A witness of deeds that the despot hath done.

“Away—and for ever! U spurn the control
Which hath fettered my body and bowed down my soul—
With the pride of a freeman I trample in scorn
The yoke which my neck hath too patiently borne!

“Ye may follow my track where the herbage is red,
For my feet have been bathed in the blood of your dead—
Ye may follow in vengeance—but wo for the hour!
For your footsteps are girt by a perilous power!”

He spoke—and the triumph of vengeance was seen
In the flash of his eye and the pride of his mien;
And he muttered a curse on the land of the South,
While a smile of derision still played round his mouth.

One look on the spot which his hatred hath cursed,
And away, like a steed of the wild he hath burst!
Exultant, he bounds over hill-top and plain,
And his foot spurns the earth with the pride of disdain.

No more shall the blook of the fugitive drip
All warmly and red from the overseers whip—
No longer shall thrill on the fugitive’s ear
The threat of the master, the taunt, and the jeer.

Away to the land of the North—for her star
Shall beacon thy course from its blue home afar—
Away, like the wind—pausing not to look back,
For the seeker of blood shall be quick on thy track!

Where the home of the planter magnificent stood
There are mouldering ruins and foot-prints in blood—
Where the tone of the viol rose soft on the air
Is the voice of the mourner—the wail of despair!

Wo! wo! for the lovely, the good, and the brave,
By the whirlwind of vengeance swept down to the grave!
For the Spoiler passed on, like a demon of wrath,
And Massacre yelled in his havoc-strown path!

On the still air of midnight, a terrible cry,
Like the trumpet of Doom, called the sleepers—to die!
They woke—but the prayer of their anguish was vain
For the sabre is red with the blood of the slain!

When the Morning looked out from the East with its sun,
The work of destruction and vengeance was done—
The smoke, like a pall, wrapt the desolate scene,
And Ruin scowled darkly where Beauty had been!

What marvel? Yet weep for the tree and the flower
Swept down to the dust in a terrible hour!
For the strength which hath passed from the place where it stood!
For the light which was quenched in a tempest of blood!

Oh, this was the work of revenge and despair,
When the fetter and yoke were too galling to bear—
For the iron had entered the fugitive’s soul,
Till he spurned in his hatred the tyrant’s control.

From his wife and his child they had torn him apart,
Unheeding the anguish which gnawed at his hear—
And he knew that the daughter he idolized must
Be doomed to a life of pollution and lust.

Then the demon awoke—and he vowed in his wrath
That the blood of the despot should crimson his path;
That Ruin should howl o’er their desolate hearth,
Who had scoffed at his wo in the madness of mirth.

And dark was the hatred he nursed in his breast,
Till the thirst for revenge robbed his spirit of rest—
Then he swept o’er their home like a whirlwind of fire,
And Destruction trod close in the path of his ire!

Flow darkly, St. Illa! for mixed with thy flood,
There are tears in the track of the Shedder of Blood!
And thy waves have a tone like a funeral wail,
As they give their low voice to the answering gale!

From his death-work the Slayer in triumph hath gone—
Weep, Land of the South! for his deed is thine own—
Ay, weep! till thine eye-balls in agony swim,
For the cup of thy trembling is filled to the brim!