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. Chauning'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 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 river-horse as he crushed the 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, 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, Her soul, like the transparent air That robes the hills above, All things with arms of love. And thus she walks among her girls 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 It is their prayers, which never cease, THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. Is 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, 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, All things were glad and free; On him alone was the doom of pain, THE THE Slaver in the broad lagoon Lay moored with idle sail; He waited for the rising moon, And for the evening gale. QUADROON GIRL. Under the shore his boat was tied, Odours 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, 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, Deeper than plummet lies, Are not the sport of storms. Within Earth's wide domains In deserts makes its prey; Scare schoolboys from their play! 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. Songs. TO AN OLD DANISH SONG-BOOK. WELCOME, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside, The ungrateful world Has, it seems, dealt harshly with thee, There are marks of age, There are thumb-marks on thy margin, Soiled and dull thou art; Thou art stained with wine Yet dost thou recall When I paused to hear The old ballad of King Christian Thou recallest bards, And with hearts by passion wasted, Wrote thy pages. Thou recallest homes Where thy songs of love and friendship Made the gloomy Northern winter Bright as summer. Once some ancient Scald, In his bleak, ancestral Iceland, Once in Elsinore, At the court of old King Hamlet, Once Prince Frederick's Guard Sang them in their smoky barracks ;- Peasants in the field, Sailors on the roaring ocean, Students, tradesmen, pale mechanics, All have sung them. Thou hast been their friend; They, alas, have left thee friendless! And, as swallows build In these wide, old-fashioned chimneys, Quiet, close, and warm, Sheltered from all molestation, |