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!"

They clasped his neck, they kissed his

cheeks,

They held him by the hand! — A tear burst from the sleeper's lids And fell into the sand.

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,

Along the Niger's bank;

His bridle-reins were golden chains,

And, with a martial clank,

At each leap he could feel his scabbard

of steel

Smiting his stallion's flank.

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 Apocalypse!

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.

Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain-road.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen Among her children stand;

The bright flamingoes flew ;

From morn till night he followed their

THE GOOD PART,

THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY.

SHE dwells by Great Kenhawa's side,
In valleys green and cool;
And all her hope and all her pride
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 liberate the slave.

And oft the blessed time foretells When all men shall be free; 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
Of those who waited in her hall,
And labored in her lands.

Long since beyond the Southern Sea
Their outbound sails have sped,
While she, in meek humility,
Now earns her daily bread.

It is their prayers, which never cease,
That clothe her with such grace;
Their blessing is the light of peace
That shines upon her face.

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.

A poor old slave, infirm and lame;
Great scars deformed his face;

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;
On him alone the curse of Cain
Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain,
And struck him to the earth!

THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT.

LOUD he sang the psalm of David !
He, a Negro and enslaved,

Sang of Israel's victory,
Sang of Zion, bright and free.

In that hour, when night is calmest,
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist,
In a voice so sweet and clear
That I could not choose but hear,

Songs of triumph, and ascriptions,
Such as reached the swart Egyptians,
When upon the Red Sea coast
Perished Pharaoh and his host.

And the voice of his devotion
Filled my soul with strange emotion;
For its tones by turns were glad,
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.

Paul and Silas, in their prison,
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen,
And an earthquake's arm of might
Broke their dungeon-gates at night.
But, alas! what holy angel
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,

Half buried in the sands, Lie skeletons in chains,

With shackled feet and hands.

Beyond the fall of dews,

Deeper than plummet lies,
Float ships, with all their crews,
No more to sink nor rise.
There the black Slave-ship swims,
Freighted with human forms,
Whose fettered, fleshless limbs

Are not the sport of storms.
These are the bones of Slaves;
They gleam from the abyss ;
They cry, from yawning waves,
"We are the Witnesses!"

Within Earth's wide domains

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. THE Slaver in the broad lagoon Lay moored with idle sail; He waited for the rising moon, And for the evening gale.

Under the shore his boat was tied, And all her listless crew Watched the gray alligator slide Into the still bayou.

Odors 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, Smoked thoughtfully and slow; The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, He seemed in haste to go.

He said, "My ship at anchor rides In yonder broad lagoon;

I only wait the evening tides,

And the rising of the moon."

Before them, with her face upraised, In timid attitude,

Like one half curious, half amazed, A Quadroon maiden stood.

Her eyes were large, and full of light,
Her arms and neck were bare;
No garment she wore save a kirtle bright,
And her own long, raven hair.

And on her lips there played a smile As holy, meek, and faint,

As lights in some cathedral aisle

The features of a saint.

"The soil is barren, the farm is old "
The thoughtful planter said;
Then looked upon the Slaver's gold,
And then upon the maid.

His heart within him was at strife
With such accursed gains :
For he knew whose passions gave her life,
Whose blood ran in her veins.

But the voice of nature was too weak;
He took the glittering gold!
Then pale as death grew the maiden's
cheek,

Her hands as icy cold.

The Slaver led her from the door,

He led her by the hand,

To be his slave and paramour
In a strange and distant land!

"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. 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!

Don C. She is a Gypsy girl. Lara. The easier. Don C.

You forget

And therefore won

Nay, not to be won at all! The only virtue that a Gypsy prizes Is chastity. That is her only virtue. Dearer than life she holds it. I remember

A Gypsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd, Whose craft was to betray the young and fair;

And yet this woman was above all bribes And when a noble lord, touched by her beauty,

The wild and wizard beauty of her race, Offered her gold to be what she made others,

She turned upon him, with a look of

scorn,

I saw her in the Prado yesterday. Her step was royal,

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.
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.

Lara. How credulous you are! Why

look you, friend, There's not a virtuous woman in Madrid, In this whole city! And would you per

suade me

tion,