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christy's plantation melodies. 37
A Christian more humble there's not in the land,
A heart that was kinder to man was ne'er given; I stood by his death-bed, and took his cold hand—
The last words he spoke were, * 0, meet ine in Heaven.'" He laid his soft hand on that cold, icy brow,
And dropped on the pillow a warm, manly tear, Then said, " If like him we would try to live now,
In death we should, like him, have nothing to fear."
They came to the funeral from plantations round,
To bury the slave, at the dead hour of night; A death-song they sang, as they walked to the ground,
With pine-torches blazing, to give them their light. They let him down gently, in the grave dark and deep;
On the coffin with earth, from eyes dark and dim, Fell softly the warm tears, as in love they did weep,
Whilst the minister prayed they might all die like him.
In a lone cypress swamp, where the wild-roaring bullfrog
The echoes awake with his deep, thrilling tones— Old Pompey lies there, and the plantation watch-doj*
A requiem howls o'er his deep-sunken bones.
Though the lightning-bugs flash, and the 'skeeters are singing, He starts not, he wakes not, he's free from all pain; He sleeps his last sleep—he is quietly grinning— He never shall hunt for the possum again! 4