75
No faster sped his hours.
For, by the dewy moonlight still,
He fed the weary-turning mill,
Or bent him in the chill morass,
To pluck the long and tangled grass,
And hear above his scar-worn back
The heavy slave-whip's frequent crack;—
While in his heart one evil thought
In solitary madness wrought,—
One baleful fire surviving still,
The quenching of th' immortal mind—
One sterner passion of his kind,
Which even fetters could not kill,—
The savage hope, to deal, ere long,
A vengeance bitterer than his wrong!
Hark to that cry!—long, loud and shrill,
From field and forest, rock and hill,
Thrilling and horrible it rung,
Around, beneath, above;—
The wild beast from his cavern sprung—
The wild bird from her grove!
Nor fear, nor joy, nor agony
Were mingled in that midnight cry;
But, like the lion's growl of wrath,
When falls that hunter in his path,
Whose barbed arrow, deeply set,
Is rankling in his bosom yet,
It told of hate, full, deep and strong,—
Of vengeance kindling out of wrong;
It was as if the crimes of years—
The agony—the toil—the tears—
