They are, in the language of the slave's poet, Whittier-- _Gone, gone, sold and gone, To the rice swamp dank and lone, Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings, Where the noisome insect stings, Where the fever-demon strews Poison with the falling dews, Where the sickly sunbeams glare Through the hot and misty air:-- Gone, gone, sold and gone To the rice swamp dank and lone, From Virginia hills and waters-- Woe is me, my stolen daughters_! The hearth is desolate.

The children, the unconscious children, who once sang and danced in her presence, are gone.

She gropes her way, in the darkness of age, for a drink of water.

Instead of the voices of her children, she hears by day the moans of the dove, and by night the screams of the hideous owl.

All is gloom.