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The book is completed,
And closed, like the day; And the hand that has written it
Lays it away.
Dim grow its fancies ;
Forgotten they lie; Like coals in the ashes,
They darken and die.
Song sinks into silence,
The story is told,
The hearth-stone is cold.
The black shadows fall ; Sleep and oblivion
Reign over all.
The noble horse,
POEMS ON SLAVERY.
[The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea,
before I 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, My heart, responding, ever said,
“Servant of God! well done!” Well done! Thy words are great and bold;
At times they seem to me,
Half-battles for the free.
Go on, until this land revokes
The old and chartered Lie, The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes
A voice is ever at thy side
Speaking in tones of might,
To John in Patmos, “ Write!”
Write ! and tell out this bloody tale ;
Record this dire eclipse, This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail,
This dread Apocalypse !