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. 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, in testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.]

TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING

HE pages of thy book I read,

THE

as one,

And as I closed each

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 Apocalypse!

BE

THE SLAVE'S DREAM

ESIDE 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;

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.