For she was rich, and gave up all
To break the iron bands

Of those who waited in her hall,
And laboured 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.

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;

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.

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;

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 grey alligator slide
Into the still bayou.

Odours of orange-flowers, and spice,

Reached them from time to time,

Like airs that breathe from Paradise Upon a world of crime.