POEMS ON SLAVERY.[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, in testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.]TO WILLIAM E. CHANNINGThe 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,Like Luther's, in the days of old,Half-battles for the free.Go on, until this land revokesThe old and chartered Lie,The feudal curse, whose whips and yokesInsult humanity.A voice is ever at thy sideSpeaking in tones of might,Like the prophetic voice, that criedTo 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!THE SLAVE'S DREAMBeside the ungathered rice he lay,His sickle in his hand;His breast was bare, his matted hairWas buried in the sand.Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,He saw his Native Land.Wide through the landscape of his dreamsThe lordly Niger flowed;Beneath the palm-trees on the plainOnce more a king he strode;And heard the tinkling caravansDescend the mountain-road.He saw once more his dark-eyed queenAmong her children stand;They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,They held him by the hand!—A tear burst from the sleeper's lidsAnd fell into the sand.And then at furious speed he rodeAlong the Niger's bank;His bridle-reins were golden chains,And, with a martial clank,At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steelSmiting his stallion's flank.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.At night he heard the lion roar,And the hyena scream,And the river-horse, as he crushed the reedsBeside some hidden stream;And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,Through the triumph of his dream.The forests, with their myriad tongues,Shouted of liberty;And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,With a voice so wild and free,That he started in his sleep and smiledAt their tempestuous glee.He did not feel the driver's whip,Nor the burning heat of day;For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,And his lifeless body layA worn-out fetter, that the soulHad broken and thrown away!THE GOOD PARTTHAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAYShe dwells by Great Kenhawa's side,In valleys green and cool;And all her hope and all her prideAre in the village school.Her soul, like the transparent airThat robes the hills above,Though not of earth, encircles thereAll things with arms of love.And thus she walks among her girlsWith praise and mild rebukes;Subduing e'en rude village churlsBy her angelic looks.She reads to them at eventideOf One who came to save;To cast the captive's chains asideAnd liberate the slave.And oft the blessed time foretellsWhen all men shall be free;And musical, as silver bells,Their falling chains shall be.And following her beloved Lord,In decent poverty,She makes her life one sweet recordAnd deed of charity.For she was rich, and gave up allTo break the iron bandsOf those who waited in her hall,And labored in her lands.Long since beyond the Southern SeaTheir 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 peaceThat shines upon her face.THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMPIn dark fens of the Dismal SwampThe hunted Negro lay;He saw the fire of the midnight camp,And heard at times a horse's trampAnd a bloodhound's distant bay.Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine,In bulrush and in brake;Where waving mosses shroud the pine,And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vineIs spotted like the snake;Where hardly a human foot could pass,Or a human heart would dare,On the quaking turf of the green morassHe crouched in the rank and tangled grass,Like a wild beast in his lair.A poor old slave, infirm and lame;Great scars deformed his face;On his forehead he bore the brand of shame,And the rags, that hid his mangled frame,Were the livery of disgrace.All things above were bright and fair,All things were glad and free;Lithe squirrels darted here and there,And wild birds filled the echoing airWith songs of Liberty!On him alone was the doom of pain,From the morning of his birth;On him alone the curse of CainFell, like a flail on the garnered grain,And struck him to the earth!THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHTLoud he sang the psalm of David! He, a Negro and enslaved, Sang of Israel's victory, Sang of Zion, bright and free.In that hour, when night is calmest, Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, In a voice so sweet and clear That I could not choose but hear,Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, Such as reached the swart Egyptians, When upon the Red Sea coast Perished Pharaoh and his host.And the voice of his devotion Filled my soul with strange emotion; For its tones by turns were glad, Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.Paul and Silas, in their prison, Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, And an earthquake's arm of might Broke their dungeon-gates at night.But, alas! what holy angel Brings the Slave this glad evangel? And what earthquake's arm of might Breaks his dungeon-gates at night?THE WITNESSESIn Ocean's wide domains,Half buried in the sands,Lie skeletons in chains,With shackled feet and hands.Beyond the fall of dews,Deeper than plummet lies,Float ships, with all their crews,No more to sink nor rise.There the black Slave-ship swims,Freighted with human forms,Whose fettered, fleshless limbsAre not the sport of storms.These are the bones of Slaves;They gleam from the abyss;They cry, from yawning waves,"We are the Witnesses!"Within Earth's wide domainsAre markets for men's lives;Their necks are galled with chains,Their wrists are cramped with gyves.Dead bodies, that the kiteIn deserts makes its prey;Murders, that with affrightScare school-boys from their play!All evil thoughts and deeds;Anger, and lust, and pride;The foulest, rankest weeds,That choke Life's groaning tide!These are the woes of Slaves;They glare from the abyss;They cry, from unknown graves,"We are the Witnesses!THE QUADROON GIRLThe Slaver in the broad lagoonLay moored with idle sail;He waited for the rising moon,And for the evening gale.Under the shore his boat was tied,And all her listless crewWatched the gray alligator slideInto the still bayou.Odors of orange-flowers, and spice,Reached them from time to time,Like airs that breathe from ParadiseUpon a world of crime.The Planter, under his roof of thatch,Smoked thoughtfully and slow;The Slaver's thumb was on the latch,He seemed in haste to go.He said, "My ship at anchor ridesIn yonder broad lagoon;I only wait the evening tides,And the rising of the moon.Before them, with her face upraised,In timid attitude,Like one half curious, half amazed,A Quadroon maiden stood.Her eyes were large, and full of light,Her arms and neck were bare;No garment she wore save a kirtle bright,And her own long, raven hair.And on her lips there played a smileAs holy, meek, and faint,As lights in some cathedral aisleThe features of a saint."The soil is barren,—the farm is old";The thoughtful planter said;Then looked upon the Slaver's gold,And then upon the maid.His heart within him was at strifeWith such accursed gains:For he knew whose passions gave her life,Whose blood ran in her veins.But the voice of nature was too weak;He took the glittering gold!Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek,Her hands as icy cold.The Slaver led her from the door,He led her by the hand,To be his slave and paramourIn a strange and distant land!THE WARNINGBeware! The Israelite of old, who toreThe lion in his path,—when, poor and blind,He saw the blessed light of heaven no more,Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grindIn prison, and at last led forth to beA pander to Philistine revelry,—Upon the pillars of the temple laidHis desperate hands, and in its overthrowDestroyed himself, and with him those who madeA cruel mockery of his sightless woe;The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all,Expired, and thousands perished in the fall!There is a poor, blind Samson in this land,Shorn of his strength and bound in bonds of steel,Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand,And shake the pillars of this Commonweal,Till the vast Temple of our liberties.A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies.
[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, in testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.]
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,Like Luther's, in the days of old,Half-battles for the free.
Go on, until this land revokesThe old and chartered Lie,The feudal curse, whose whips and yokesInsult humanity.
A voice is ever at thy sideSpeaking in tones of might,Like the prophetic voice, that criedTo 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!
Beside the ungathered rice he lay,His sickle in his hand;His breast was bare, his matted hairWas buried in the sand.Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,He saw his Native Land.
Wide through the landscape of his dreamsThe lordly Niger flowed;Beneath the palm-trees on the plainOnce more a king he strode;And heard the tinkling caravansDescend the mountain-road.
He saw once more his dark-eyed queenAmong her children stand;They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,They held him by the hand!—A tear burst from the sleeper's lidsAnd fell into the sand.
And then at furious speed he rodeAlong the Niger's bank;His bridle-reins were golden chains,And, with a martial clank,At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steelSmiting his stallion's flank.
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.
At night he heard the lion roar,And the hyena scream,And the river-horse, as he crushed the reedsBeside some hidden stream;And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,Through the triumph of his dream.
The forests, with their myriad tongues,Shouted of liberty;And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,With a voice so wild and free,That he started in his sleep and smiledAt their tempestuous glee.
He did not feel the driver's whip,Nor the burning heat of day;For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,And his lifeless body layA worn-out fetter, that the soulHad broken and thrown away!
She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side,In valleys green and cool;And all her hope and all her prideAre in the village school.
Her soul, like the transparent airThat robes the hills above,Though not of earth, encircles thereAll things with arms of love.
And thus she walks among her girlsWith praise and mild rebukes;Subduing e'en rude village churlsBy her angelic looks.
She reads to them at eventideOf One who came to save;To cast the captive's chains asideAnd liberate the slave.
And oft the blessed time foretellsWhen all men shall be free;And musical, as silver bells,Their falling chains shall be.
And following her beloved Lord,In decent poverty,She makes her life one sweet recordAnd deed of charity.
For she was rich, and gave up allTo break the iron bandsOf those who waited in her hall,And labored in her lands.
Long since beyond the Southern SeaTheir 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 peaceThat shines upon her face.
In dark fens of the Dismal SwampThe hunted Negro lay;He saw the fire of the midnight camp,And heard at times a horse's trampAnd a bloodhound's distant bay.
Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine,In bulrush and in brake;Where waving mosses shroud the pine,And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vineIs spotted like the snake;
Where hardly a human foot could pass,Or a human heart would dare,On the quaking turf of the green morassHe crouched in the rank and tangled grass,Like a wild beast in his lair.
A poor old slave, infirm and lame;Great scars deformed his face;On his forehead he bore the brand of shame,And the rags, that hid his mangled frame,Were the livery of disgrace.
All things above were bright and fair,All things were glad and free;Lithe squirrels darted here and there,And wild birds filled the echoing airWith songs of Liberty!
On him alone was the doom of pain,From the morning of his birth;On him alone the curse of CainFell, like a flail on the garnered grain,And struck him to the earth!
Loud he sang the psalm of David! He, a Negro and enslaved, Sang of Israel's victory, Sang of Zion, bright and free.
In that hour, when night is calmest, Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist, In a voice so sweet and clear That I could not choose but hear,
Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, Such as reached the swart Egyptians, When upon the Red Sea coast Perished Pharaoh and his host.
And the voice of his devotion Filled my soul with strange emotion; For its tones by turns were glad, Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.
Paul and Silas, in their prison, Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, And an earthquake's arm of might Broke their dungeon-gates at night.
But, alas! what holy angel Brings the Slave this glad evangel? And what earthquake's arm of might Breaks his dungeon-gates at night?
In Ocean's wide domains,Half buried in the sands,Lie skeletons in chains,With shackled feet and hands.
Beyond the fall of dews,Deeper than plummet lies,Float ships, with all their crews,No more to sink nor rise.
There the black Slave-ship swims,Freighted with human forms,Whose fettered, fleshless limbsAre not the sport of storms.
These are the bones of Slaves;They gleam from the abyss;They cry, from yawning waves,"We are the Witnesses!"
Within Earth's wide domainsAre markets for men's lives;Their necks are galled with chains,Their wrists are cramped with gyves.
Dead bodies, that the kiteIn deserts makes its prey;Murders, that with affrightScare school-boys from their play!
All evil thoughts and deeds;Anger, and lust, and pride;The foulest, rankest weeds,That choke Life's groaning tide!
These are the woes of Slaves;They glare from the abyss;They cry, from unknown graves,"We are the Witnesses!
The Slaver in the broad lagoonLay moored with idle sail;He waited for the rising moon,And for the evening gale.
Under the shore his boat was tied,And all her listless crewWatched the gray alligator slideInto the still bayou.
Odors of orange-flowers, and spice,Reached them from time to time,Like airs that breathe from ParadiseUpon a world of crime.
The Planter, under his roof of thatch,Smoked thoughtfully and slow;The Slaver's thumb was on the latch,He seemed in haste to go.
He said, "My ship at anchor ridesIn yonder broad lagoon;I only wait the evening tides,And the rising of the moon.
Before them, with her face upraised,In timid attitude,Like one half curious, half amazed,A Quadroon maiden stood.
Her eyes were large, and full of light,Her arms and neck were bare;No garment she wore save a kirtle bright,And her own long, raven hair.
And on her lips there played a smileAs holy, meek, and faint,As lights in some cathedral aisleThe features of a saint.
"The soil is barren,—the farm is old";The thoughtful planter said;Then looked upon the Slaver's gold,And then upon the maid.
His heart within him was at strifeWith such accursed gains:For he knew whose passions gave her life,Whose blood ran in her veins.
But the voice of nature was too weak;He took the glittering gold!Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek,Her hands as icy cold.
The Slaver led her from the door,He led her by the hand,To be his slave and paramourIn a strange and distant land!
Beware! The Israelite of old, who toreThe lion in his path,—when, poor and blind,He saw the blessed light of heaven no more,Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grindIn prison, and at last led forth to beA pander to Philistine revelry,—
Upon the pillars of the temple laidHis desperate hands, and in its overthrowDestroyed himself, and with him those who madeA cruel mockery of his sightless woe;The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all,Expired, and thousands perished in the fall!
There is a poor, blind Samson in this land,Shorn of his strength and bound in bonds of steel,Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand,And shake the pillars of this Commonweal,Till the vast Temple of our liberties.A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies.