Ashes to Ashes

"Master,—""Do not call me master;For, I tell thee, I am none;Dark-browed freeman, there 's no masterIn this land of ours, but One."

"Friend,—""Still better—call me brother!We are dying, side by side;For one cause, beneath one banner,Mingling here life's ebbing tide.Say it after me—'Our Father!'—Now, then, are we not allied?"

"Brother,—"Aye! thou needst not falter;Speak it boldly!—say it loud!—Look! the Land's torn breast is bleeding,But its brow is calm and proud;Yonder, see, the stars are shining,Though the blossoms here are bowed.And I tell thee, dark-browed brother,That our Land is better nowThan when roses, on its bosom,Blushed beneath a frowning brow.Call me brother!—call me brother!Reach thy true hand nearer mine—It is cold, but mine is colder;Let them freeze, and, freezing, twine!"

"Brother,—""Yes, I listen, brother."

———"I have thought, how can this be?For the Lord, who gave us stations,Knows I do not equal thee!"

"Needs it that we should be equal?Souls have stature as He wills.Yonder, the night's silvery pulsesRoll in wide and narrow rills,Yet no one hath right to trampleOn the space another fills."

"Brother,—""Yes, I listen, brother."

———"Say 'Our father' once again;For a strange, new light seems dawningOn the stupor of my brain;And my soul seems reaching upward,With a motion new and bold.Brother,—Oh! his hand hath frozen!And my own is freezing cold."

Dark and fair, they slumbered there;New England boy, whose golden hairTrailed on a forehead cold,That glimmered through gold meshes, wetWith red life-jewels framed in jet;And many a shaggy Afric curlTouched red life-jewels framed in pearl;And the same vail of moonlight glowSwept sable cheek and throat of snow,With its pale, silver fold.Dark and fair, they slumbered there—Young face serene and pure as prayer,Where death could not eclipseThe beauty that more radiant beamedBecause its white enchantment seemedTo hold the smile that went and cameIn life, a bright but fitful flame,Frozen upon its lips;And a dark, dull, time-withered face,Where feeling never left a trace,Nor beauty shaped a curve—A narrow and unlovely brow,Whose mold proclaimed it formed to bow;A creature fit to serve.And there were fingers, white as pearls,And slight and dainty as a girl's,That with a rigid clasp caressedA sable hand, that coldly pressedAnd held them to a frozen breast.

Two mortal brothers, hand in hand,Slept on the bosom of the Land;And Heaven's meek brow seemed leaning downTo fasten in its starry crownThe soul-gems it had wonSince the pale hour of twilight passedThe portal of existence last,To curtain out the sun.And, maybe, in that crown they shineTwo stars, whose rays would dare to twine;It may be that the curseOf blackness fades from off the soulThat reaches its eternal goalUnstained by deeper dyes of crime,Unsullied by the feet of Time,That trampled on a dusky breastAnd slowly crushed it to its rest.But so, or not, He knoweth bestWho rules the Universe.