7 With darting eye, and nostril spread, They buried the dark chief; they freed One piercing neigh Arose, and, on the dead man's plain, POEMS ON SLAVERY. The noble horse, That, in his fiery youth, from his wide nostrils MASSINGER. [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, a feeble testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.] TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING. THE pages of thy book I read, Well done! Thy words are great and bold; Like Luther's, in the days of old, Go on, until this land revokes The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes A voice is ever at thy side, 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 then at furious speed he rode Ilis 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 the plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, And the ocean rose to view. 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 ! R THE GOOD PART THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. SHE dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, Her soul, like the transparent air And thus she walks among her girls, She reads to them at eventide And oft the blessed time foretells And musical, as silver bells, 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 Of those who waited in her hall, |