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, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, Excelsior! 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.] At night he heard the lion roar, And the river-horse as he crushed the reeds 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, With a voice so wild and free, That he started in his sleep and smiled At their tempestuous glee. He did not feel the driver's whip, 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, 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 ; To cast the captive's chains aside, And oft the blessed time foretells And musical, as silver bells, Their falling chains shall be. And following her beloved Lord, In decent poverty, She makes her life one sweet record And deed of charity. 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 The Planter, under his roof of thatch, Like one half curious, half amazed, Her eyes were large, and full of light, 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; Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, Her hands as icy cold. The Slaver led her from the door, THE WITNESSES. IN Ocean's wide domains, With shackled feet and hands. Deeper than plummet lies, Are not the sport of storms. "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 The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, Expired, and thousands perished in the fall! There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of steel, Till the vast Temple of our liberties A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. |