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.] He saw once more his dark-eyed queen Among her children stand; 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, 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, And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, He did not feel the driver's whip, And his lifeless body lay worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away! 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 ; To cast the captive's chains aside And oft the blessed time foretells Their falling chains shall be. And following her beloved Lord, She makes her life one sweet record 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 glowworms shine, In bulrush and in brake; Where waving mosses shroud the pin And the cedar grows, and the poiso ous 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; 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 ! In that hour, when night is calmest, Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, And the voice of his devotion Paul and Silas, in their prison, 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, 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 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. Odors of orange-flowers, and spice, The Planter, under his roof of thatch, He said, "My ship at anchor rides I only wait the evening tides, Before them, with her face upraised, Like one half curious, half amazed, "The soil is barren, the farm is old" His heart within him was at strife Her hands as icy cold. The Slaver led her from the door, To be his slave and paramour There was the Countess of Medina Celi; Her Lindo Don Diego; Doña Sol, As Lope says, the history of the world Brought down from Genesis to the Day of Judgment. There were three duels fought in the first act, Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds, Laying their hands upon their hearts, and saying, "O, I am dead!" a lover in a closet, An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan, A Doña Inez with a black mantilla, Followed at twilight by an unknown lover, Who looks intently where he knows she is not ! Don C. Of course, the Preciosa danced to-night? Lara. And never better. footstep fell Every As lightly as a sunbeam on the water. I saw her in the Prado yesterday. 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. Why do you ask? Lara. Because I have heard it said this angel fell, And, though she is a virgin outwardly, Within she is a sinner; like those panels Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks Painted in convents, with the Virgin Mary 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. |