Classic Poem

Years of his freedom—two!
And a shivering phantom stands,
With the firelight flickering through
His gaunt and wasted hands.
“Home”—and he bowed his head
With a low and wailing cry;
Ah! not for shelter, and not for bread,
Only a place to—die.

To die at the master's feet,
Out of the scourging storm,
Where the winds might never beat,
Where Tom lay ever warm;
Till Freedom the pitiless
Fell from th' eternal sky,
And the bitterness of his nakedness
Made Tom so glad to—die.

Oh! had these arms the pith
Of just two years ago!
Wrecked in the wrestle with
Yon wilderness of woe!
Tom's love would bring the light
Back to the master's eye—
But the blood in his heart is cold to-night,
And he only comes to—die!

Was it ever so many years,
Or only yesterday,
That master, among the peers,
Went bravest with Tom the gay?
Before the “locust” and “hail,”
Or only an hour gone by,
That freedom fell with a flail
On Tom, and made him die.

Of the dear old days so sweet
Does master dream as he sits,
Till the weariness of his feet
Seems wandering in his wits;
Till yesterday seemed so dim,
And the far away so nigh,
That his head goes all a-swim,
And his heart is fain to die!

Poor Tom! For a hundred years
Your blood has coursed by mine;
Were there warmth in bitter tears,
There should not lack the brine.
Dying! I know it well,
As I know the signs on high,
The tokens that grimly tell
Out of the storm 'twere well,
Both of us, Tom, to die.