Where hardly a human foot could pass, On the quaking turf of the green morass A poor old slave, infirm and lame; Great scars deformed his face; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, Were the livery of disgrace. All things above were bright and fair, On him alone was the doom of pain, THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. LOUD he sang the psalm of David! He, a Negro and enslaved, Sang of Israel's victory, Sang of Zion, bright and free. In that hour, when night is calmest, Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, Such as reached the swart Egyptians, When upon the Red Sea coast Perished Pharaoh and his host. And the voice of his devotion Paul and Silas, in their prison, Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, And an earthquake's arm of might Broke their dungeon-gates at night. But, alas! what holy angel THE WITNESSES. IN Ocean's wide domains, Half buried in the sands, Lie skeletons in chains, With shackled feet and hands. Beyond the fall of dews, Deeper than plummet lies, Float ships, with all their crews, No more to sink nor rise. There the black Slave-ship swims, Within Earth's wide domains Are markets for men's lives; Their necks are galled with chains, Their wrists are cramped with gyves. Dead bodies, that the kite In deserts makes its prey; Murders, that with affright Scare schoolboys from their play. All evil thoughts and deeds; That choke Life's groaning tide! These are the woes of Slaves; THE QUADROON GIRL. THE Slaver in the broad lagoon Under the shore his boat was tied, Odours of orange-flowers, and spice, Reached them from time to time, Like airs that breathe from Paradise Upon a world of crime. The Planter, under his roof of thatch, He said, "My ship at anchor rides I only wait the evening tides, Before them, with her face upraised, Like one half curious, half amazed, Her eyes were large, and full of light, And on her lips there played a smile The features of a saint. “The soil is barren,—the farm is old," And then upon the maid. His heart within him was at strife For he knew whose passions gave her life, Whose blood ran in her veins. |