Of the still spring, upon whose brink
I lay my weary limbs to rest,
And bow my parching lips to drink.
Guide of the friendless negro’s way,
I bless thee for this quiet ray!
“In the dark top of southern pines
I nestled, when the Driver’s horn
Called to the field, in lengthening lines,
My fellows, at the break of morn.
And there I lay till thy sweet face