But soon with alter’d looks askance
    They view his sable face and form,
  When they perceive the scornful glance
    Of the head boy, young Henry Orme.

  He in the school was first in fame: 
    Said he, “It does to me appear
  To be a great disgrace and shame
    A black should be admitted here.”

  His words were quickly whisper’d round,
    And every boy now looks offended;
  The master saw the change, and found
    That Orme a mutiny intended.

  Said he to Orme, “This African
    It seems is not by you approv’d;
  I’ll find a way, young Englishman,
    To have this prejudice remov’d.

  “Nearer acquaintance possibly
    May make you tolerate his hue;
  At least ’tis my intent to try
    What a short month may chance to do.”

  Young Orme and Juba then he led
    Into a room, in which there were
  For each of the two boys a bed,
    A table, and a wicker chair.

  He lock’d them in, secur’d the key,
    That all access to them was stopt;
  They from without can nothing see;
    Their food is through a sky-light dropt.

  A month in this lone chamber Orme
    Is sentenc’d during all that time
  To view no other face or form
    Than Juba’s parch’d by Afric clime.

  One word they neither of them spoke
    The first three days of the first week;
  On the fourth day the ice was broke;
    Orme was the first that deign’d to speak.

  The dreary silence o’er, both glad
    To hear of human voice the sound,
  The Negro and the English lad
    Comfort in mutual converse found.

  Of ships and seas, and foreign coast,
    Juba can speak, for he has been
  A voyager:  and Orme can boast
    He London’s famous town has seen.

  In eager talk they pass the day,
    And borrow hours ev’n from the night;
  So pleasantly time past away,
    That they have lost their reckoning quite.

  And when their master set them free,
    They thought a week was sure remitted,
  And thank’d him that their liberty
    Had been before the time permitted.

  Now Orme and Juba are good friends;
    The school, by Orme’s example won,
  Contend who most shall make amends
    For former slights to Afric’s son.

THE GREAT GRANDFATHER

  My father’s grandfather lives still,
    His age is fourscore years and ten;
  He looks a monument of time,
    The agedest of aged men.

  Though years lie on him like a load,
    A happier man you will not see
  Than he, whenever he can get
    His great grand-children on his knee.

  When we our parents have displeas’d,
    He stands between us as a screen;
  By him our good deeds in the sun,
    Our bad ones in the shade are seen.

  His love’s a line that’s long drawn out,
    Yet lasteth firm unto the end;
  His heart is oak, yet unto us
    It like the gentlest reed can bend.