When, lo! in the distance boomed the guns,
The bruise was over, and "Massa" had fled!
But Death is the "Massa" that never flees,
And still to the oaks they bore the dead.
'Twas at set of sun; a tattered troop
Of children circled a little grave,
Chanting an anthem rich in its peace
As ever pealed in cathedral-nave,—
The A, B, C, that the lips below
Had learnt with them in the school to shout.
Over and over they sung it slow,
Crooning a mystic meaning out.
A, B, C, D, E, F, G,—
Down solemn alphabets they swept:
The oaks leaned close, the moss swung low,—
What strange new sound among them crept?
The holiest hymn that the children knew!
'Twas dreams come real, and heaven come near;
'Twas light, and liberty, and joy,
And "white-folks' sense,"—and God right here!
Over and over; they dimly felt
This was the charm could make black white,
This was the secret of "Massa's" pride,
And this, unknown, made the negro's night.
What could they sing of braver cheer
To speed on his unseen way the friend?
The children were facing the mystery Death
With the deepest prayer that their hearts could send.
Children, too, and the mysteries last!
We are but comrades with them there,—
Stammering over a meaning vast,
Crooning our guesses of how and where.
But the children were right with their A, B, C;
In our stammering guess so much we say!
The singers were happy, and so are we:
Deep as our wants are the prayers we pray.