T HERE'S a tree in that sun-gladdened land of the South,
Which beareth a coronal fair
When the summer robeth the trees in green,
And decks them with blossoms rare, —
A tree near a fortress where loyal hearts dwell,
Where waveth the flag of the free.
Oh, what would I give for one heart-cheering hour
Spent under that live-oak tree!

There the bugle sounded, the drum was beat,
And the tunes we love were heard;
And the soldier's heart by a patriot air
On the dear home-tunes was stirred.
The branches sway in the winter blast;
The acorns lie on the ground;
But listening angels, hovering near,
Have carried up the sound.

The moonlight falls on the massive trunk,
Through its moss-clad branches now;
But the hour has been (be it oft again!),
When beneath their shade could bow
The praying band, while the chaplain's voice
In the accent of prayer was heard,
And the soldier's heart by the thought of God
And his heavenly home was stirred.

Ah! sweet is the music of fife and drum
To the lovers of martial airs,
But sweeter the tones of the holy hymn,
And the soldier's fervent prayers.
Still nearer the listening angels drew,
When the incense of prayer arose;
And the Master came, as he promised once,
And he blessed them at the close.

O live-oak temple at Fortress Monroe!
In thy shade I may never stand;
But thy fruit, by a loyal hand secured,
I hold in my loyal hand.
And I'll plant the germ with a fervent prayer
That the Union may endure
When thy centuries end, O live-oak tree!
And thou shelterest the loyal no more.

And I'll pray that thine acorn prove the seed
Of a tree whose root may be firm,
And whose spreading branches shall shelter none
But the hearts with true fire warm.
I plant it with hope that it scarce may sprout
Ere this sad, sad strife be o'er,
And that as it grows, so light may dawn
On the paths so dark before,

And the bondman find that the chains are broke,
That no slave breathes our air,
And that in the anthems of the free
The black man's voice hath share, —
Not the low, deep bass of a gathering storm,
Or the heart-wrung minor tone,
But the glad, free notes of a happy soul,
To whom Freedom's joys are known.

It will come, 'twill come, that glorious day,
When the slave will not be found,
With a crouching fear or a muttering wrath,
On Freedom's blood-stained ground!
Sing on, thou poet, of " furnace fires " !
Still hoping, I sing with thee:
Hallelujah! the black man standeth now ,
War freed, 'neath that live-oak tree.