Hear the music of the pines—
Murmuring through the climbing vines,
Sighing through the tree tops high,
Floating upward to the sky,
On the hills of Hayti ring
Mandates of the Frenchman's king,
And the waves the tidings bring—
'Slavery to the slave!'
She was young; old Conroy took her,
Took her for herself alone,
For no wealth had she to offer,
Love for him she had not shown.
O, Life of Dreams! O, Dreams of Life!
Ye mysteries are that breathe and thrill—
Emanuel is dead! I shall not see again,
In all the earth, his manly form, or hear
The music of his voice, in soothing strain,
From hill to hill let Freedom ring!
Let tyrants bend the knee!
Why should the people have a king,
When every man a king should be!
Through all of life there runs a vein
Of mystery—of joy and pain,
Of hope and disappointment, and
Of hate and love. In every land,
We must grow old! The years go by,
Sometimes on wings they seem to fly;
But why such haste? We know not why!
We only know that we grow old!
There is rapture in the thought,
From thy words of constance caught,
That the world contains no prize
Like the peace thy love supplies.
You will go hence, sweetheart, and leave me,
And may forget
We ever met—