59 POEMS ON SLAVERY. 1842. [The following Poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October. 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, a feeble testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.] They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, They held him by the hand!- And then at furious speed he rode His bridle-reins were golden chains, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion's flank. Before him, like a blood-red flag, O'er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, And the ocean rose to view. At night he heard the lion roar, Beside some hidden stream; And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, Through the triumph of his dream. The forests, with their myriad tongues, Shouted of liberty; And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, He did not feel the driver's whip, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter that the soul Had broken and thrown away! THE GOOD PART, THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. Her soul, like the transparent air She reads to them at eventide Of one who came to save; And oft the blessed time foretells Their falling chains shall be. She makes her life one sweet record For she was rich, and gave up all It is their prayers, which never cease, THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL IN dark fens of the Dismal Swamp He saw the fire of the midnight camp, And a bloodhound's distant bay. Where will-o'-the-wisps and glowworms shine, In bulrush and in brake; Where waving mosses shroud the pine, And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine Is spotted like the snake; Where hardly a human foot could pass, Or a human heart would dare, On the quaking turf of the green morass He crouched in the rank and tangled grass, Like a wild beast in his lair. A poor old slave, infirm and lame; And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, All things above were bright and fair, On him alone was the doom of pain, THE WITNESSES. IN Ocean's wide domains, Are not the sport of storms, 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; They glare from the abyss; They cry, from unknown graves, "We are the Witnesses!" THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. LOUD he sang the Psalm of David! In that hour, when night is calmest, Brings the Slave this glad evangel? THE QUADROON GIRL. 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, Like one half curious, half amazed, And her own long, raven hair. As lights in some cathedral aisle "The soil is barren,-the farm is old?" His heart within him was at strife For he knew whose passions gave her life, Whose blood ran in her veins. But the voice of nature was too weak; Her hands as icy cold. The Slaver led her from the door, Lara. And never better. Every footstep fell As lightly as a sunbeam on the water. I think the girl extremely beautiful. Don C. Almost beyond the privilege of woman! I saw her in the Prada yesterday. Her step was royal,-queen-like,-and her face As beautiful as a saint's in Paradise. Lara. May not a saint fall from her Paradise, And be no more a saint? Don C. And, though she is a virgin outwardly, On the outside, and on the inside Venus! Don C. You do her wrong; indeed, you do her wrong! She is as virtuous as she is fair. Lara. How credulous you are! Why, look you, friend, * "La cólera de un Español sentado no se templa, sino le representan en dos horas hasta el final juicio desde el Génesis." -Lope de Vega. |