Classic Poem

White lightnings shuddered up the sky,
The thunder groaned afar,
—Groaned like some wounded deity
Of elemental war;

And Pomp, the slave that Deacon Brown
So boasted him to own,
The single slave in Truro town,
Gave echo to the groan.

The wildest of the poor, snared flock
Of “Guinea blackbirds” whom
Beau Flash had brought to Plymouth Rock,
He would not bear his doom.

The vastity of waters bound
His spirit like a chain;
His soul was maddened by the sound
Of that far-sundering main.

They could not gentle him with prayer,
Nor holy lore impart,
Such jets of anguish and despair
Burst from his smothering heart.

Cuffee of Barnstable would sit
The sermon out in dreams
Of rainbow-colored birds that flit
Above the Congo streams;

And Dinah's master from her sin
Had saved her ere he sold,
And into Bibles for his kin
Put Dinah's price in gold.

But Pomp was as untamable
As jungle lion; he
Would war against the Christian spell
With pagan sorcery.

And now the thunder and the flame
Were calling him away.
The spirit's craving overcame
All terrors of the clay.

That dazzle in his brain was hope.
He snatched a loaf of bread,
A jug of water, coil of rope,
And like a shadow fled,

—Fled to his savage gods of storm
At revel in the air,
Swart demons grim and multiform
That gave him welcome there.

Still stands the stump of that sad tree
Whence a Cape Cod pilgrim went
From bondage forth to liberty,
And home from banishment.