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From morn till night he followed their flight,
O'er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roof of Caffre huts,
And the ocean rose to view.
At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyena scream,
Beside some hidden stream;
Through the triumph of his dream.
The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty;
With a voice so wild and free,
At their tempestuous glee.
He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;
And his lifeless body lay
THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE.*
A CHRISTIAN! going, gone!
Hath in her suffering won?
My God! can such things be! Hast Thou not said that whatsoe'er is done Unto Thy weaker and Thy humblest one,
Is even done to Thee?
In that sad victim, then,
Bound, sold, and scourged again!
A Christian up for sale! Wet with her blood your whips-o'ertask her frame, Make her life loathsome with your wrong and shame,
Her patience shall not fail!
A heathen hand might deal
Ye neither heed nor feel.
Con well thy lesson o'er,
* In a late publication of L. F. Tasistro, “Random Shots and Southern Breezes," is a description of a slave auction at New Orleans, at which the auctioneer recommended the woman on the stand as "a good Christian,"
No dangerous tale of Him who came to save
The outcast and the poor.
But wisely shut the ray
One stern command—“ OBEY."
So shalt thou deftly raise The market price of human flesh; and while On thee, their pampered guest, the planters smile,
Thy church shall praise.
Grave reverend men shall tell From Northern pulpits how thy work was blest, While in that vile South Sodom, first and best,
Thy poor disciples sell!
Oh, shame! the Moslem thrall,
His fetters break and fall.
Cheers for the turbaned Bey
Their inmates into day.
But our poor slave in vain
And rivet on his chain.
God of all right! how long
And haughty brow of wrong?
Oh, from the fields of cane, From the low rice-swamp, from the trader's cellFrom the black slave-ship's foul and loathsome hell,
And coffe’s weary chain,
Hoarse, horrible, and strong
OUR COUNTRYMEN IN CHAINS.
Our fellow-countrymen in chains !
Slaves—in a land of light and law!
Where rolled the storm of Freedom's war!
A wail where Camden's martyrs fell-
From Moultrie's wall and Jasper's well!
By storied hill and hallowed grot,
By mossy wood and marshy glen, Whence rang of old the rifle-shot,
And hurrying shout of Marion's men.
The groan of breaking hearts is there
The falling lash-the fetter's clank ! Slaves—SLAVES are breathing in that air
Which old De Kalb and Sumter drank!
What, ho ! our countrymen in chains !
The whip on woman's shrinking flesh! Our soil yet reddening with the stains
Caught from her scourging, warm and fresh! What! mothers from their children riven!
What! God's own image bought and sold ! AMERICANS to market driven,
And bartered as the brute for gold !
Speak! shall their agony of prayer
Come thrilling to our hearts in vain ?
The paltry menace of a chain;
Of holy Liberty and Light-
Plead vainly for their plundered Right?
What! shall we send, with lavish breath,
Our sympathies across the wave Where Manhood, on the field of death,
Strikes for his freedom, or a grave ? Shall prayers go up, and hymns be sung
For Greece, the Moslem fetter spurning, And millions hail with pen and tongue
Our light on all her altars burning ?
Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France,
By Vendome's pile and Schoenbrun’s wall,