Bronze (Johnson)/The Passing of the Ex-Slave
THE PASSING OF THE EX-SLAVE
Swift melting into yesterday,The tortured hordes of ebon-clay;No more is heard the plaintive strain,The rhythmic chaunting of their pain.
Their mounded bodies dimly riseTo fill the gulf of sacrifice,And O'er their silent hearts belowThe mantled millions softly go.
Some few remaining still abide,Gnarled sentinels of time and tide,Now mellowed by a chastened glowWhich lighter hearts will never know.
Winding into the silent way,Spent with the travail of the day,So royal in their humble mightThese uncrowned Pilgrims of the Night!