Ha! that start of horror!-Why
That wild stare and wilder cry,
Full of terror, full of pain?

Is there madness in her brain?
Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low,
"Spare me,-spare me,-let me go!"

God have mercy!—Icy cold
Spectral hands her own enfold,
Drawing silently from them.
Love's fair gifts of gold and gem,
"Waken! save me!" still as death
At her side he slumbereth.

Ring and bracelet all are gone,
And that ice-cold hand withdrawn;
But she hears a murmur low,
Full of sweetness, full of woe,

Half a sigh and half a moan:

"Fear not! give the dead her own!"

Ah!-the dead wife's voice she knows!
That cold hand, whose pressure froze,
Once in warmest life had borne
Gem and band her own hath worn.
"Wake thee! wake thee!" Lo, his eyes
Open with a dull surprise.

In his arms the strong man folds her, Closer to his breast he holds her; Trembling limbs his own are meeting, And he feels her heart's quick beating: "Nay, my dearest, why this fear?" "Hush!" she saith, "the dead is here!"

"Nay, a dream,-an idle dream." But before the lamp's pale gleam Tremblingly her hand she raises,— There no more the diamond blazes, Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold,"Ah!" she sighs, "her hand was cold!"

Broken words of cheer he saith,

But his dark lip quivereth,

And as o'er the past he thinketh,

From his young wife's arms he shrinketh; Can those soft arms round him lie, Underneath his dead wife's eye?

She her fair young head can rest
Soothed and childlike on his breast,

And in trustful innocence

Draw new strength and courage thence;
He, the proud man, feels within

But the cowardice of sin!

She can murmur in her thought
Simple prayers her mother taught,
And His blessed angels call,
Whose great love is over all;
He, alone, in prayerless pride,
Meets the dark Past at her side!

One, who living shrank with dread
From his look, or word, or tread,
Unto to whom her early grave
Was as freedom to the slave,
Moves him at this midnight hour,
With the dead's unconscious power!

Ah, the dead, the unforgot!

From their solemn homes of thought,
Where the cypress shadows blend
Darkly over foe and friend,
Or in love or sad rebuke,

Back upon the living look.

And the tenderest ones and weakest,

Who their wrongs have borne the meekest,

Lifting from those dark, still places,

Sweet and sad-remembered faces,

O'er the guilty hearts behind

An unwitting triumph find.

THE FAREWELL

OF A VIRGINIA SLAVE MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTERS SOLD INTO SOUTHERN

Gone, gone,-sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,—
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone,-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
There no mother's eye is near them,
There no mother's ear can hear them;
Never, when the torturing lash
Seams their back with many a gash,
Shall a mother's kindness bless them,
Or a mother's arms caress them.

Gone, gone,-sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,-
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone,-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone.

O, when weary, sad, and slow,

From the fields at night they go,

Faint with toil, and racked with pain,

To their cheerless homes again,

There no brother's voice shall greet them,There no father's welcome meet them.

Gone, gone,-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,—
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone,-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone.

From the tree whose shadow lay

On their childhood's place of play,—

From the cool spring where they drank,—

Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank,

From the solemn house of prayer,
And the holy counsels there,—

Gone, gone, -sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,-
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone, -sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,-
Toiling through the weary day,
And at night the spoiler's prey.
O that they had earlier died,
Sleeping calmly, side by side,