The Confessions of The Year
The gray old year—the dying year,
His sands were well nigh run;
When there came by one in priestly weed,
To ask of the deeds he'd done.
“Now tell me, ere thou treadst the path
Thy brethren all have trode,
The scenes that life has shown to thee
Upon thine onward road.”
“I've seen the sunbeam rise and set,
As it rose and set before
And the hearts of men bent earthwardly,
As they have been evermore;
The Christian raised his hallow'd fanes,
And bent the knee to God;
But his hand was strong, and guilt and wrong
Defaced the earth he trod.
“The Indian, by his forest streams,
Still chased the good red deer,
Or turn'd away to kneel and pray
With the Christian's faith and fear;
The hunting-knife he flung aside,
He dropp'd the warrior blade,
And delved for bread the soil o'er which
His fathers idly stray'd.
“The white man saw that gold was there,
And sought, with savage hand,
To drive his guiltless brother forth,
A wanderer o'er the land.
I saw—and gave the tale of shame
To swell on history's page,—
A blot upon Columbia's name
For many a future age.
“With aching brow and wearied limb,
The slave his toil pursued;
And oft I saw the cruel scourge
Deep in his blood imbrued;
He till'd oppression's soil, where men
For liberty had bled,
And the eagle wing of Freedom waved
In mockery, o'er his head.
“The earth was fill'd with the triumph shout
Of men who had burst their chains;
But his, the heaviest of them all,
Still lay on his burning veins;
In his master's hall there was luxury,
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poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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