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200 Years of Palmetto Poets

William J. Grayson (1788-1863)

William J. Grayson was born in Beaufort District, the son of a Continental Army officer. Grayson graduated from Columbia College in 1813. Afterward he practiced law in Beaufort and was eventually elected to the state legislature and then to U.S. Congress in 1833. He was one of a handful of prominent South Carolinians who strove to avert the start of the Civil War, but when war appeared inevitable, he sided with the Confederacy. He died at Newberry, SC on October 4, 1863.

From The Hireling and the Slave

Where Hireling millions toil, in doubt and fear,
For food and clothing, all the weary year,
Content and grateful, if their Masters give
The boon they humbly beg-to work and live;
While dreamers task their idle wits to find,
A short hand method to enrich mankind,
And Fourier's scheme and Owen's deep device,
The drooping hearts of list'ning crowds entice
With rising wages, and decreasing toil,
With bounteous crops from ill-attended soil:
If, while the anxious multitudes appear,
Now glad with hope, now yielding to despair,
A Seraph form, descending from the skies,
In mercy sent, should meet their wond'ring eyes,
And smiling, promise all the good they crave,
The homes, the food, the clothing of the Slave,
Restraint from vice, exemption from the cares
The pauper Hireling ever feels or fears;
And, at their death, these blessings to renew,
That wives and children may enjoy them too,
That, when disease or age their strength impairs,
Subsistence and a home should still be theirs;
What wonder would the promised boon impart,
What grateful rapture swell the Peasant's heart;
How freely would the hungry list'ners give
A life-long labour, thus secure to live!
And yet the life, so unassailed by care,
So blest with moderate work, with ample fare,
With all the good the pauper Hireling needs,
The happier Slave on each plantation leads;
Safe from harassing doubts and annual fears,
He dreads no famine, in unfruitful years;
If harvests fail from inauspicious skies,
The Master's providence his food supplies;
No paupers perish here for want of bread,
Or lingering live, by foreign bounty fed;
No exiled trains of homeless peasants go,
In distant climes, to tell their tales of woe;
Far other fortune, free from care and strife,
For work, or bread, attends the Negro's life,
And Christian Slaves may challenge as their own,
The blessings claimed in fabled states alone-
The cabin home, not comfortless, though rude,
Light daily labour, and abundant food,
The sturdy health, that temperate habits yield,
The cheerful song, that rings in every field,
The long, loud laugh, that freemen seldom share,
Heaven's boon to bosoms unapproached by care,
And boisterous jest and humour unrefined,
That leave, though rough, no painful sting behind;
While, nestling near, to bless their humble lot,
Warm social joys surround the Negro's cot,
The evening dance its merriment imparts,
Love, with his rapture, fills their youthful hearts,
And placid age, the task of labour done,
Enjoys the summer shade, the winter's sun,
And, as through life no pauper want he knows,
Laments no poorhouse penance at its close.
His too the Christian privilege to share
The weekly festival of praise and prayer;
For him the Sabbath shines with holier light,
The air is balmier, and the sky more bright;
Winter's brief suns with warmer radiance glow,
With softer breath the gales of autumn blow,
Spring with new flowers more richly strews the ground,
And summer spreads a fresher verdure round;
The early shower is past; the joyous breeze
Shakes patt'ring rain drops from the rustling trees,
And with the sun, the fragrant offerings rise,
From Nature's censers to the bounteous skies;
With cheerful aspect, in his best array,
To the far forest church he takes his way;
With kind salute the passing neighbour meets,
With awkward grace the morning traveller greets,
And joined by crowds, that gather as he goes,
Seeks the calm joy the Sabbath morn bestows.
There no proud temples to devotion rise,
With marble domes that emulate the skies;
But bosomed in primeval trees that spread
Their limbs o'er mouldering mansions of the dead,
Moss cinctured oaks and solemn pines between,
Of modest wood, the house of God is seen,
By shaded springs, that from the sloping land
Bubble and sparkle through the silver sand,
Where high o'er arching laurel blossoms blow,
Where fragrant bays breathe kindred sweets below,
And elm and ash their blended arms entwine
With the bright foliage of the mantling vine:
In quiet chat, before the hour of prayer,
Masters and Slaves in scattered groups appear;
Loosed from the carriage, in the shades around,
Impatient horses neigh and paw the ground;
No city discords break the silence here,
No sounds unmeet offend the listener's ear;
But rural melodies of flocks and birds,
The lowing, far and faint, of distant herds,
The mocking-bird, with minstrel pride elate,
The partridge whistling for its absent mate,
The thrush's soft solitary notes prolong,
Bold, merry blackbirds swell the general song,
And cautious crows their harsher voices join,
In concert cawing, from the loftiest pine.
When now the Pastor lifts his earnest eyes,
And hands outstretched, a suppliant to the skies;
No rites of pomp or pride beguile the soul,
No organs peal, no clouds of incense roll,
But, line by line, untutored voices raise,
Like the wild birds, their simple notes of praise,
And hearts of love, with true devotion bring,
Incense more pure to Heaven's eternal King,
On glorious themes their humble thoughts employ,
And rise transported with no earthly joy;
The blessing said, the service o'er, again
Their swelling voices raise the sacred strain;
Lingering, they love to sing of Jordan's shore,
Where sorrows cease, and toil is known no more.

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