  O whitened head entwined in turban gay, O kind black face, O crude, but tender hand, O foster-mother in whose arms there lay The race whose sons are masters of the land! It was thine arms that sheltered in their fold, It was thine eyes that followed through the length Of infant days these sons. In times of old It was thy breast that nourished them to strength. So often hast thou to thy bosom pressed The golden head, the face and brow of snow; So often has it 'gainst thy broad, dark breast Lain, set off like a quickened cameo. Thou simple soul, as cuddling down that babe With thy sweet croon, so plaintive and so wild, Came ne'er the thought to thee, swift like a stab, That it some day might crush thine own black child? |
|
