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, And on her lips there played a smile As lights in some cathedral aisle The features of a saint. "The soil is barren,-the farm is old, His heart within him was at strife For he knew whose passions gave her life, But the voice of nature was too weak; He took the glittering gold! 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 THE WARNING. BEWARE! The Israelite of old, who tore The lion in his path,-when, poor and blind, He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind In prison, and at last led forth to be A pander to Philistine revelry, Upon the pillars of the temple laid His desperate hands, and in its overthrow Destroyed himself, and with him those who made A cruel mockery of his sightless woe; The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, |