  Tom's good wife Chloe, far at home, And his boys so blythe and black, Are all working hard, in hopes to win And George, who taught him long ago, Has many a pleasant plan, To pay his price, and set him free. When he comes to be a man. But little does that wicked man, In his angry madness, know, That God himself will take account Of each cruel word and blow. And children dear, who see him here, At night and morning pray, That you may never have aught like this Laid up for the judgment day! By the time all these things happened, George Shelby had grown up; but when he came to buy back Tom, the pious, kindly negro, had been so ill-treated by that cruel planter, because he tried to save the other slaves from his evil temper, that he lay dying in an old shed; and there was no law to punish the wicked planter, because Tom was black. When George entered the shed where Tom lay, he felt his head giddy and his heart sick. "Is it possible?" said he, kneeling down by him. "Uncle Tom, my poor, poor old friend!" Something in the voice penetrated to the ear of the dying. He smiled, and said— "Jesus can make a dying bed Feel soft as downy pillows are." Tears fell from the young man's eyes as he bent over his poor friend. "O, dear Uncle Tom! do wake—do speak once more! Look up. Here's Mas'r George—your own little Mas'r George. Don't you know me?" "Mas'r George!" said Tom, opening his eyes, and speaking in a feeble voice—"Mas'r George!" He looked bewildered. Slowly the idea seemed to fill his soul; and the vacant eye became fixed and brightened, the whole face lighted up, the hard hands clasped, and tears ran down the cheeks. "Bless the Lord' it is—it is—it's all I wanted! They haven't forgot me. It warms my soul; it does my old heart good! Now I shall die content! Bless the Lord, O my soul!" He began to draw his breath with long, deep aspirations; and his broad chest rose and fell heavily. The expression of his face was that of a conqueror. "Who—who shall separate us from the love of Christ?" he said, in a voice that contended with mortal weakness; and with a smile he fell asleep. Beyond the boundaries of the plantation George had noticed a dry, sandy knoll, shaded by a few trees; there they made a grave for poor Tom. "Shall we take off the cloak, mas'r?" said the negroes, when the grave was ready. "No, no; bury it with him. It's all I can give you now, poor Tom, and you shall have it." They laid him in; and the men shovelled away silently. They banked it up, and laid green turf over it. "You may go, boys," said George, slipping a quarter dollar into the hand of each. They lingered about, however. "If young mas'r would please buy us," said one. "We'd serve him so faithful!" said the other. "Do, mas'r, buy us, please!" "I can't—I can't," said George, with difficulty, motioning them off; "it's impossible!" The poor fellows looked dejected, and walked off in silence. "Witness, eternal God," said George, kneeling on the grave of his poor friend—"O, witness that, from this hour, I will do what one man can to drive out this curse of slavery from my land!" There is no monument to mark the last resting-place of poor Tom. He needs none. His Lord knows where he lies, and will raise him up immortal, to appear with Him when He shall appear in his glory. LEGREE STRIKING TOM. LEGREE STRIKING TOM. But little does that wicked man, In his angry madness, know, That God himself will take account Of each cruel word and blow. |
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