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.THE COXJ]SrTIlYM:A.]Nr. BY J. A. TURNER. —“brevity is the soui. of wit”— SI A YEAR. YOL. III. TURNWOLD, PUTNAM COUNTY, GA„ MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1862. NO. 9. THE OLD PLANTATION A POEM. Then let that hand the negro’s cottage bless, And ease his pain when troubling ills distress, The Wanderer refers to the Negro Houses—The Ne groes’ Freedom from Cate—Their happy Content ment compared «vith the Anxiety of many Free men— Reference to their Sports—The Dar.ce and the Corn-song—Their Tales of ‘Spirits’ and Ghosts — Deduction from their childish Simplicity—Mer cy in governing them Recommended—Invocation to the Abolitionists—Their Power Defied—Plea for the Negro—Description of the country Church— Worship in it Described—Description of the Minis ter—Camp-meeting Described—The Camp-meet ing Orator. In lengthened line,stretched out by yonder wood, The negro servants’ humble hovels stood ; Yet Heaven more bliss dispensed within their huts Than splendid gold in many a palace shuts. Slaves were they called : hut aye the vacant mind Was free from chains which freemen often bind. Their food and raiment bounteously supplied, Content with these, no wasting sorrow tried ; No proud ambition filled their breasts with care, No pangs of avarice had their hearts to bear; 11 But peaceful joys unnumbered round their door, Contentment waved their humble lintels o’er. Oft have I marked the gay and happy scene Of negroes sporting o’er the mirthful green, Their boisterous laughter echoing down the vale, The rustic corn-song’s loud and plaintive wail. Oft have I seeii them tripping in the dance, Shake well the ground, and steal the amorous glance, Play hide-the-switch, or in some other play Prolong the pleasures of the festive day. A boyish listener I have heard their tales Of midnight scenes in darkly haunted vales, Or shadowy groves, some troubled ‘spirit’s’seat, With wild adventure in the lone retreat ; Have heard them boast, when spectres crossed their track, How bravely they had turned thegoblins back; Some rustic ‘charm’ the ‘spirit’ wheeled about, And put the horrid ghost they met to rout. These simple tales bespeak the simple mind, A grown-up race to childish thought confine!, And prove its sons a fostering care demand, And need a guardian’s kir.d protecting hand. And so ’tis needful that a master’s rule Their simple minds, and childish hearts should school: And s) the chastening rod they ’re sure to need, But mercy’s voice the master’s hand should heed, ^ Remembering that his Master is in heaven, And as he gives, so to him shall be given. Cursed he the hand that shall the power abuse, That God has given it where the tropic dews Embalm the soil by negro labor tilled, The land with peace and choicest blessings filled. Rather that hand should use its genial power To bless the slave, and crown the happy bower, Where prouder rank, to humbler toil allied, In deeds of mercy finds its noblest pride. Assured that Heaven will smile, tho’ men may frown, And high reward the act of mercy crown. No nobler deeds celestial records hold, Than those which feed the hungry, warm the cold; No nobler sons to Heaven’s reward shall pass, Than those which foster Afric’s toiling class. Oft have I lingered by the side of these When racked with pain, or tortured by disease ; Wept when they wept, and felt each painful throe That burning fever caused their hearts to know ; And when they died,my tears bedewed the grave Of those whom kindness sought in vain to save: Nor aught I claim for this beneath the sun, Nor yet beyond—’twas simple duty done. Oh ! ye who boast that love for Afric’s sons, Through all your action, all your being runs, Tell me, in truth, can ye do more than this, To give the sable Ethiopian bliss ? Know Heaven'made him in humble walks to move, And keep for those at home your fervid love; Feed hunger’s subjects starving round your door, And turn your thoughts to negro slaves no more. Our sunny section at your meddling hands, No gift or favor lor herself demands : Her sons will guard her altars and her fires, Protect their mothers, and their bending sires. ’Tis not for these we pray you stay your hand, And leave untouched the fortunes of our land : But for the sake of those ye strive to bless, Whose galling chains your bleeding hearts dis tress, I pray withhold your misdirected zeal, And calm the throes your burdened bosoms feel; For all ye do their bondage fixes sure, And far from breaking, makes their chains se cure. Let us alone—we know the negro best, And strive to make his humble fortune blest: Your busy zeal and meddling mischief come To blast his prospects, desolate his home. Hard by this spot, on yonder liill-top stood The country church, then sacred to but good ; For worldly thought had not assumed the sway, To tear the heart from God and heaven away. Here, weekly, thronging numbers would repair, Mindless of wealth, forgetting worldly care, To spend the day in prayer and pious mood, Humbly sincere, perchance in manner rude. Here faithful Christians,when the sabbath came, Bent eager feet to praise their Maker’s name ; Here drooped its pinions, on the holy morn, The bleeding heart, by sad misfortune torn, And sought from Heaven, and seeking surely found The balm for wo, the balsam for its wound. Healed by the grace which bounteous Heaven bestowed, With heavenly fervor every fibre glowed; The drooping pinion reared its plumes on high, And valiant faith propelled it toward the sky. Rude was the house,unpainted, ’mid the green, That o’er the roof far spread its leafy screen; Here was no tell, no proud and lofty spire, V\ ith boastful head, demanding heavenly fire ; But to each heart’s more humble spire to heaven, Seraphic sparks by Heaven were freely given. The low pine benches ranged the pulpit round, Where all who came a ready welcome crowned ; No costly pew the needy kept away, But humble poverty might come and pray As boldly as proud wealth with all his gold, For heavenly favors were not bought nor sold. The rafters, bare and rugged overhead, Stopped not the thought as on to heaven it sped ; No sweeping arch detained it on the way, No costly vault proposed a fond delay ; No frescoed ceiling, artful painting formed A barrier to the rustic heart that warmed With lively fervor in the zealous prayer, Borne up to heaven upon the balmy air ; No sumptuous luxury the bosom froze That oped its portals as the worship rose. The plain pine pulpit, unadorned by art, Had charms no earthly artist could impart; For when the preacher took the sacred stand, Read from the bible, raised his trembling hand, Tracing the way which saint and martyr trod, To reach the realms of glory and of God, 'lhen round the desk there shone a sacred glow, And light from Heaven illumined all below. As well he strove with heavenly art to please, His snowy locks uplifted iij the breeze, All eyes were turned to view the man of God, Cheer ’neath his smile, or bend to take the rod. The glowing theme his heaving breast inspired, And living coals, his words of fervor fired; Indignant grown, reproving darts he hurled, And broke the shield that guards the sinful world; Denounced its lures, rebuked the flesh of sin, And then with fervor sought each heart to win ; With manly tears, he spoke of heavenly love, And every thought and feeling raised above, As melting strains made every listener weep, And silence even blasphemers forced to keep. Now burst tho hymn from every thankful tongue, And heart-felt praise in choral anthems rung : No chosen choir, with studied skill of art, Froze u- the music gushing from the heart, | But all stood forth one universal choir, And sung the hymn with nature’s fervid fire . The singing done, they bowed the humble knee, To humbly urge Mt. Calvary’s potent plea, The preacher leading in the prayer to Heaven, While deep responses to his words were given, And loud amecs bespoke the fervid zeal, Which every bosom present seemed to feel; And heart-felt accents breathed in humble prayer,