Henry W. Grady
Upon the winds from shores uncharted blown,
That phantom came, stoled in his trailing mists;
He set his cruel gyves upon thy wrists:—
Thine ear was dulled save to his subtle tone:—
He led thee down where fade the paths unknown
In the deep hollows of the Shadow Land:
Love’s tears,—the tendance of her gentle hand,—
Thou didst remember not: her deepest groan
Stayed not thy feet—thine eyes were fixed away
Upon the mountains of some other clime!
Among the noblest, gathered from all time,
In God’s great universe somewhere to-day
He wanders where the cool all-healing trees
Uplift their fronds in fair Champs Elysées.
Henry Jerome Stockard.
Graham, N.C.