In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright; "Try not the Pass!" the old man said; "O stay," the maiden said, "and rest "Beware the pine-tree's withered branch: This was the peasant's last Good-night, At break of day, as heavenward A traveller, by the faithful hound, There in the twilight cold and gray, Poems on Slavery. 1842. [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, My heart, responding, ever said, "Servant of God! well done!" Well done! Thy words are great and bold; At times they seem to me Like Luther's, in the days of old, Half-battles for the free. Go on, until this land revokes The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes Insult humanity. A voice is ever at thy side, Speaking in tones of might, Like the prophetic voice, that cried Write! and tell out this bloody tale; This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, THE SLAVE'S DREAM. BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, He saw his Native Land. Wide through the landscape of his dreams The lordly Niger flowed; He saw once more his dark-eyed queen They held him by the hand!- And then at furious speed he rode Along the Niger's bank; 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, The bright flamingoes flew; From morn till night he followed. their flight, O'er plains where the tamarind grew, They clasped his neck, they kissed his Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, cheeks, And the ocean rose to view. With a voice so wild and free, At night he heard the lion roar, And the hyæna scream; And the river-horse as he crushed the reeds Beside some hidden stream; That he started in his sleep and smiled At their tempestuous glee. And it passed, like a glorious roll of He did not feel the driver's whip, drums, Through the triumph of his dream. The forests, with their myriad tongues, And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, Nor the burning heat of day; For death, had illumined the Land of And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul THE GOOD PART THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. SHE dwells by great Kenhawa's side, Are in the village school. Her soul, like the transparent air That robes the hills above, All things with arms of love. She reads to them at eventide Of One who came to save ; To cast the captive's chains aside, And oft the blessed time foretells And musical, as silver bells, Their falling chains shall be. She makes her life one sweet record For she was rich and gave up all To break the iron bands It is their prayers, which never cease, THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp The hunted Negro lay; He saw the fire of the midnight camp, And heard at times a horse's tramp, And a bloodhound's distant bay. Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms 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, 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, All things were glad and free; Lithe squirrels darted here and there, And wild birds filled the echoing air With songs of Liberty! On him alone was the doom of pain, From the morning of his birth ;. THE Slaver in the broad lagoon And all her listless crew The Planter, under his roof of thatch, Like one half curious, half amazed, Her eyes were large, and full of light, "The soil is barren,-the farm is old; " His heart within him was at strife But the voice of nature was too weak; Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, Her hands as icy cold. THE WITNESSES. IN Ocean's wide domains, With shackled feet and hands. Beyond the fall of dews, Deeper than plummet lies, Are not the sport of storms. They gleam from the abyss; They cry, from yawning waves, "We are the Witnesses !" Within Earth's wide domains In deserts makes its prey; That choke Life's groaning tide! They glare from the abyss; They cry from unknown graves, "We are the Witnesses!" THE WARNING. BEWARE! The Israelite of old, who tore A pander to Philistine revelry,— Upon the pillars of the temple laid His desperate hands, and in its overthrow There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of steel, A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. |