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With darting eye, and nostril spread,
They buried the dark chief; they freed Beside the grave his battle steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart! One piercing neigh Arose,--and, on the dead man's plain, The rider grasps his steed again.
The noble horse,
(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,
And as I closed each one,
“ Servant of God! well done!"
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,
Speaking in tones of might,
To John in Patmos, “ Write !"
Write! and tell out this bloody tale;
Record this dire eclipse,
This dread Apocalypse !
THE SLAVE'S DREAM,
BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;
Was buried in the sand.
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.
And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger's bank; llis 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.
Before him, like a blood-red flag,
The bright flamingoes flew ;
O'er the plains where the tamarind grew,
At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyæna scream,
Beside some hidden stream;
Through the triumph of his dream.
Shouted of liberty ;
With a voice so wild and free,
At their tempestuous glee.
Nor the burning heat of day;
And his lifeless body lay.
Had broken and thrown'away!
THE GOOD PART THAT SHALL NOT BE
SHE dwells by Great Kenhawa's side,
In valleys green and cool ;
Are in the village school.
Her soul, like the transparent air
That robes the hills above,
All things with arms of love.
With praise, and mild rebukes ;
By her angelic looks.
She reads to them at eventide
Of One who came to save ;
And liberate the slave.
And oft the blessed time foretells
When all men shall be free;
Their falling chains shall be.
And following her beloved Lord,
In decent poverty,
And deed of charity.
To break the iron bands
And laboured in her lands.