The Passing of the Ex-Slave
- Swift melting into yesterday,
- The tortured hordes of ebon-clay;
- No more is heard the plaintive strain,
The rhythmic chaunting of their pain.
- Their mounded bodies dimly rise
- To fill the gulf of sacrifice,
- And o’er their silent hearts below
The mantled millions softly go.
- Some few remaining still abide.
- Gnarled sentinels of time and tide.
- Now mellowed by a chastened glow
Which lighter hearts will never know.
- Winding into the silent way,
- Spent with the travail of the day,
- So royal in their humble might
- These uncrowned Pilgrims of the Night!