THE GOBLET OF LIFE. FILLED is Life's goblet to the brim; With solemn voice and slow. No purple flowers, no garlands green, Thick leaves of mistletoe. This goblet, wrought with curious art, Is filled with waters, that upstart, When the deep fountains of the heart, By strong convulsions rent apart, Are running all to waste. And as it mantling passes round, Above the lowly plants it towers, It gave new strength, and fearless mood; A wreath of fennel wore. Then in Life's goblet freely press, New light and strength they give! And he who has not learned to know The prayer of Ajax was for light; To see his foeman's face. Let our unceasing, earnest prayer Childhood is the bough, where slumbered | Above, the spectral glaciers shone, Bear a lily in thy hand; Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, O, that dew, like balm, shall steal And that smile, like sunshine, dart EXCELSIOR. THE shades of night were falling fast, His brow was sad; his eye beneath, In happy homes he saw the light "Try not the Pass!" the old man said; "Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior! "O stay," the maiden said, "and rest "Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! At break of day, as heavenward A traveller, by the faithful hound, There in the twilight cold and gray, 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. longer appropriate. I have decided, however, to admiration for a great and good man.] Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no let it remain as it was written, in testimony of my 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!" Well done! Thy words are great and bold; At times they seem to me, Go on, until this land revokes The old and chartered Lie, They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, They held him by the hand! And then at furious speed he rode 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, Like the prophetic voice, that cried To John in Patmos, "Write!" Write and tell out this bloody tale; THE SLAVE'S DREAM. BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, Wide through the landscape of his dreams He saw once more his dark-eyed queen Among her children stand; The bright flamingoes flew; From morn till night he followed their flight, O'er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, And the ocean rose to view. THE GOOD PART, THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. SHE dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, Her soul, like the transparent air 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 And labored in her lands. 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, 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 ! Sang of Israel's victory, 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 Brings the Slave this glad evangel? And what earthquake's arm of might Breaks his dungeon-gates at night? THE WITNESSES. IN Ocean's wide domains, With shackled feet and hands. Beyond the fall of dews, Deeper than plummet lies, There the black Slave-ship swims, Are not the sport of storms. 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, "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. Under the shore his boat was tied, And all her listless crew Watched the gray alligator slide Into the still bayou. Odors 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, Smoked thoughtfully and slow; The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, He seemed in haste to go. He said, "My ship at anchor rides I only wait the evening tides, Before them, with her face upraised, A Quadroon maiden stood. Her eyes were large, and full of light, And on her lips there played a smile As lights in some cathedral aisle "The soil is barren, - the farm is old"; His heart within him was at strife But the voice of nature was too weak; Her hands as icy cold. The Slaver led her from the door, He led her by the hand, |