A traveller, by the faithful hound, There in the twilight cold and grey, [The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October. 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, a feeble testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.] POEMS ON SLAVERY. TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING. THE pages of thy book I read, Well done! Thy words are great and bold! Half-battles for the free. Go on, until this land revokes The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes A voice is ever at thy side Speaking in tones of might, Like the prophetic voice, that cried Write! and tell out this bloody tale; This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, THE SLAVE'S DREAM BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, His breast was bare, his matted hair Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his Native Land. Wide through the landscape of his dreams Beneath the palm-trees on the plain He saw once more his dark-eyed queen 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 And then at furious speed he rode Along the Niger's bank; His bridle-reins were golden chains, And, with a martial clank, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion's flank. |