Childhood is the bough, where slumbered | Above, the spectral glaciers shone, POEMS ON SLAVERY. [The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October, 1842. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing's death. Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, in testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.] TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING. THE pages of thy book I read, And as I closed each one, My heart, responding, ever said, "Servant of God! well done!" They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, They held him by the hand! A tear burst from the sleeper's lids Well done! Thy words are great and And then at furious speed he rode bold; At times they seem to me, Half-battles for the free. Go on, until this land revokes The old and chartered Lie, Along the Niger's bank; His bridle-reins were golden chains, And, with a martial clank, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion's flank. The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes Before him, like a blood-red flag, Insult humanity. A voice is ever at thy side Speaking in tones of might, Write and tell out this bloody tale; This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, THE SLAVE'S DREAM. BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, His breast was bare, his matted hair The bright flamingoes flew ; From morn till night he followed their The forests, with their myriad tongues, Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, THE GOOD PART, THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. SHE dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, Her soul, like the transparent air That robes the hills above, Though not of earth, encircles there All things with arms of love. And thus she walks among her girls With praise and mild rebukes; Subduing e'en rude village churls By her angelic looks. She reads to them at eventide Of One who came to save; And oft the blessed time foretells When all men shall be free; And musical, as silver bells, Their falling chains shall be. And following her beloved Lord, She makes her life one sweet record For she was rich, and gave up all Long since beyond the Southern Sea It is their prayers, which never cease, THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. IN dark fens of the Dismal Swamp He saw the fire of the midnight camp, A poor old slave, infirm and lame; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, 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, Brings the Slave this glad evangel? 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, Freighted with human forms, Whose fettered, fleshless limbs Are not the sport of storms. These are the bones of Slaves; They gleam from the abyss; They cry, from yawning waves, "We are the Witnesses!" 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 school-boys from their play! All evil thoughts and deeds; Anger, and lust, and pride; The foulest, rankest weeds, That choke Life's groaning tide! These are the woes of Slaves; They glare from the abyss; They cry, from unknown graves, 66 We are the Witnesses !" THE QUADROON GIRL. THE Slaver in the broad lagoon Lay moored with idle sail; He waited for the rising moon, And for the evening gale. THE WARNING. The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, BEWARE! The Israelite of old, who tore Expired, and thousands perished in the The lion in his path, when, poor and blind, -- He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, fall! ACT I. SCENE I. The COUNT OF LARA'S chambers. Night. The COUNT in his dressing-gown, smoking and conversing with DON CARLOS. Lara. You were not at the play tonight, Don Carlos; How happened it? The house was crowded; and the busy fans Among the gayly dressed and perfumed ladies Fluttered like butterflies among the There was the Countess of Medina Celi; Don C. I had engagements else- Her Lindo Don Diego; Doña Sol, where. Pray who was there? Lara. Why, all the town and court. And Doña Serafina, and her cousins. |