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POEMS ON SLAVERY.

1842.

18

[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 fee. ble testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.]

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,
Like Luther's, in the days of old,

Half-battles for the free.

Go on, until this land revokes

The old and chartered Lie, 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

To John in Patmos, “Write !"

Write! and tell out this bloody tale ;

Record this dire eclipse, This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail,

This dread A pocalypse !

THE SLAVE'S DREAM.

BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay,

His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair

Was buried in the sand.
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,

He saw his Native Land.

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