TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING. THE pages of thy book I read, Well done! Thy words are great and bold; 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, 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, Wide through the landscape of his dreams Descend the mountain-road. He saw once more his dark-eyed queen They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, A tear burst from the sleeper's lids And fell into the sand. And then at furious speed he rode His bridle-reins were golden chains, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel ! Before him, like a blood-red flag, The bright flamingoes flew; From morn till night he followed their flight, O'er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, And the ocean rose to view. THE GOOD PART. 145 At night he heard the lion roar, And the hyæna scream, And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, The forests, with their myriad tongues, And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, He did not feel the driver's whip, For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away! THE GOOD PART, THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. SHE dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, Her soul, like the transparent air Though not of earth, encircles there And thus she walks among her girls She reads to them at eventide And oft the blessed time foretells And following her beloved Lord, She makes her life one sweet record For she was rich, and gave up all To break the iron bands 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. 147 THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp He saw the fire of the midnight camp, Where will-o'-the-wisps and glowworms shine, Where waving mosses shroud the pine, Where hardly a human foot could pass, On the quaking turf of the green morass A poor old slave, infirm and lame; Great scars deformed his face; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, All things above were bright and fair, On him alone was the doom of pain, Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, |