"The Dismal Swamp"
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1842
In the dark fens of the Dismal Swamp
The hunted negro lay;
He saw the fire of the midnight camp,
And heard at times a horse’s trams
and a bloodhound’s distant bay.
Where will-o’-the wisps and glowworms shine,
In Bulrush and in brake;
Where waving mosses shroud the pine,
and the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine,
Is spotted like the snake;
Where hardly a human foot could pass,
Or a human heart would dare,
On the quaking turf of the green morass
He crouched in the rank and tangled grass,
Like a wild beast in his lair.
A poor old slave, infirm and lame;
Great scars deformed his face;
On his forehead he bore the brand of shame,
And the rags, that hid his mangled frame,
Were the livery of disgrace.
All things above were bright and fair,
All things were glad and free;
Lithe squirrels darted here and there,
And wild birds filled the echoing air
With songs of Liberty.
On him alone was the doom of pain,
From the morning of his birth,
On him alone the Curse of Cain
Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain,
and struck him to the earth.