20 What kin be comin' up dat bend, a-makin' sich a row?

Fus' bellerin' like a pawin' bull, den squealin' like a
Sow?

De Lord 'a' mussy sakes alive, jes' hear,-ker-woof,
ker-woof-

De Debble's comin' round dat bend, he's comin' shuh enuff,

A-splashin' up de water wid his tail and wid his hoof!

25 I'se pow'ful skeered; but neversomeless I ain't gwine run away:

I'm gwine to stand stiff-legged for de Lord dis blessed day.

You screech, and swish de water, Satan! I'se a gwine to pray.

O hebbenly Marster, what thou willest, dat mus' be

jes' so,

And ef Thou hast bespoke de word, some nigger's bound to go.

30 Den, Lord, please take ole Jim, and lef young Dinah hyar below!

'Scuse Dinah, 'scuse her, Marster; for she's sich a little chile,

She hardly jes' begin to scramble up de homeyard

stile,

But dis ole traveller's feet been tired dis many a many a mile.

I'se wufless as de rotten pole of las' year's fodderstack.

De rheumatiz done bit my bones; you hear 'em

crack and crack?

I cain't sit down 'dout gruntin' like 'twas breakin' o' my back.

What use de wheel, when hub and spokes is warped and split, and rotten?

What use dis dried-up cotton-stalk, when Life done picked my cotton?

I'se like a word dat somebody said, and den done been forgotten.

But, Dinah! Shuh dat gal jes' like dis little hick'ry

tree,

De sap 's jes' risin in her; she do grow owdacious

lee

Lord, ef you 's clarin' de underbrush, don't cut her down, cut me!

I would not proud persume but I'll boldly make reques';

Sence Jacob had dat wrastlin'-match, I, too, gwine do my bes';

When Jacob got all underholt, de Lord he answered

Yes!

And what for waste de vittles, now, and th'ow away

de bread,

35

40

45

Jes' for to strength dese idle hands to scratch dis ole bald head?

T'ink of de 'conomy, Marster, ef dis ole Jim was dead!

Stop; ef I don't believe de Debble's gone on up de stream!

50 Jes' now he squealed down dar;-hush; dat's a mighty weakly scream!

Yas, sir, he's gone, he's gone;-he snort way off, like in a dream!

O glory hallelujah to de Lord dat reigns on high! De Debble's fai'ly skeered to def, he done gone flyin' by;

I know'd he couldn' stand dat pra'r, I felt my Marster nigh!

55 You, Dinah; ain't you 'shamed, now, dat you didn' trust to grace?

I heerd you thrashin' th'u' de bushes when he showed his face!

You fool, you think de Debble couldn't beat you in a race?

I tell you, Dinah, jes' as shuh as you is standin' dar, When folks starts prayin', answer-angels drops down th'u' de a'r.

60 Yas, Dinah, whar 'ould you be now, jes' 'ceptin' fur dat pra'r?

BALTIMORE, 1875.

THE SYMPHONY

"O TRADE! O Trade! would thou wert dead! The Time needs heart-'tis tired of head: We're all for love," the violins said.

"Of what avail the rigorous tale

Of bill for coin and box for bale?

Grant thee, O Trade! thine uttermost hope:
Level red gold with blue sky-slope,
And base it deep as devils grope:

When all's done, what hast thou won

Of the only sweet that's under the sun?

10

Ay, canst thou buy a single sigh

15

Of true love's least, least ecstasy?"

Then, with a bridegroom's heart-beats trembling,
All the mightier strings assembling

Ranged them on the violins' side

As when the bridegroom leads the bride,
And, heart in voice, together cried:
"Yea, what avail the endless tale
Of gain by cunning and plus by sale?
Look up the land, look down the land,

The poor, the poor, the poor, they stand
Wedged by the pressing of Trade's hand
Against an inward-opening door
That pressure tightens evermore:
They sigh a monstrous foul-air sigh
For the outside leagues of liberty,
Where Art, sweet lark, translates the sky
Into a heavenly melody.

'Each day, all day' (these poor folks say),

'In the same old year-long, drear-long way,
We weave in the mills and heave in the kilns,
We sieve mine-meshes under the hills,

And thieve much gold from the Devil's bank tills,
To relieve, O God, what manner of ills?—

The beasts, they hunger, and eat, and die;
And so do we, and the world's a sty;
Hush, fellow-swine: why nuzzle and cry?
Swinehood hath no remedy

Say many men, and hasten by,

Clamping the nose and blinking the eye.
But who said once, in the lordly tone,
Man shall not live by bread alone

But all that cometh from the Throne?

Hath God said so?

But Trade saith No:

And the kilns and the curt-tongued mills say Go!
There's plenty that can, if you can't: we know.

Move out, if you think you're underpaid.

The poor are prolific; we're not afraid;

Trade is trade.""

Thereat this passionate protesting
Meekly changed, and softened till
It sank to sad requesting

And suggesting sadder still:

"And oh, if men might some time see
How piteous-false the poor decree

That trade no more than trade must be!
Does business mean, Die, you-live, I?
Then 'Trade is trade' but sings a lie:

'Tis only war grown miserly.

If business is battle, name it so: