Where hardly a human foot could pass, On the quaking turf of the green morass A poor old slave, infirm and lame; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, 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: He, a Negro and enslaved, Sang of Israel's victory, Sang of Zion, bright and free. In that hour, when night is calmest, Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, And the voice of his devotion Filled my soul with strange emotion; Paul and Silas, in their prison, Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, And an earthquake's arm of might, But, alas! what holy angel THE WITNESSES. IN Ocean's wide domains, With shackled feet and hands. Beyond the fall of dews, There the black Slave-ship swims, These are the bones of Slaves; 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 schoolboys from their play. All evil thoughts and deeds; The foulest, rankest weeds, That choke Life's groaning tide! These are the woes of Slaves; THE QUADROON GIRL. THE Slaver in the broad lagoon 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 Before them, with her face upraised Like one half curious, half amazed, Her eyes were large, and full of light, No garment she wore save a kirtle bright, And on her lips there played a smile As lights in some cathedral aisle "The soil is barren,-the farm is old," 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; Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, 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. |