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The horror of a breaking heart
Poured through a mother's groan!
Up from that loathsome prison
The stricken blind ones came : Below, had all been darkness
Above, was still the same. Yet the holy breath of heaven
Was sweetly breathing there, And the heated brow of fever
Cooled in the soft sea air.
“ Overboard with them, shipmates !
Cutlass and dirk were plied ; Fettered and blind, one after one,
Plunged down the vessel's side. The sabre smote above
Beneath, the lean shark lay, Waiting with wide and bloody jaw
His quick and human prey. God of the earth! what cries
Rang upward unto Thee ? Voices of agony and blood,
From ship-deck and from sea. The last dull plunge was heard
The last wave caught its stainAnd the unsated shark looked up
For human hearts in vain.
Red glowed the western waters
The setting sun was there, Scattering alike on wave and cloud
His fiery mesh of hair. Amidst a group in blindness,
A solitary eye Gazed, from the burdened slaver's deck,
Into that burning sky.
" A storm,” spoke out the gazer,
“ Is gathering and at hand-
For one firm rood of land."
His echoed laugh replied-
Alone were at his side.
Night settled on the waters,
And on a stormy heaven,
The thunder-gust was driven.
And as the helmsman spoke,
A shout of gladness broke.
Unheeding on her way,
Fell off her driven spray.
We're perishing and blind !”
Came back upon the wind :
With blindness every one ;
Unnoting star or sun.
We've but a score on board-
Help—for the love of God !”
On livid brows of agony
But the roar of wind and thunder
Stifled the answering groan.
A last despairing cry,
The stranger ship went by.
A dark hulled vessel layWith a crew who noted never
The night-fall or the day. The blossom of the orange
Was white by every stream, And tropic leaf, and flower, ana bird
Were in the warm sun-beam.
And the sky was bright as ever,
And the moonlight slept as well, On the palm-trees by the hill-side,
And the streamlet of the dell: And the glances of the Creole
Were still as archly deep,
Of passion and of sleep.
The green earth and the sky,
To the slaver's darkened eye; At the breaking of the morning,
At the star-lit evening time, O'er a world of light and beauty,
Fell the blackness of his crime.
[“THE despotism which our fathers could not bear in their native country is expiring, and the sword of justice in her res formed hands has applied its exterminating edge to slavery. Shall the United States-the free United States, which could not bear the bonds of a king, cradle the bondage which a king is abolishing? Shall a Republic be less free than a Monarchy? Shall we, in the vigor and buoyancy of our manhood, be lege energetic in righteousness than a kingdom in its age?”—Dr. Follen's Address.
“Genius of America !-Spirit of our free institutions—where art thou?-How art thou fallen, O Lucifer! son of the morning -how art thou fallen from Heaven! Hell from beneath is moved for thee, to meet thee at thy coming !—The kings of the earth cry out to thee, Aha! Aha!
-ART THOU BECOME LIKE UNTO os?"-Speech of Samuel J. May.]
Our fellow-countrymen in chains !
Slaves—in a land of light and law!
Where rolled the storm of Freedom's war!
from Eutaw's haunted wood-
From Moultrie's wall and Jasper's well!
By mossy wood and marshy glen,
of old the rifle-shot,
The falling lash—the fetter's clank !
Which old De Kalb and Sumter drank !
What, ho !our countrymen in chains !
The whip on WOMAN's shrinking flesh !
Caught from her scourging, warm and fresh |
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 ?
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, And Poland, gasping on her lance,
The impulse of our cheering call ?
Clank o'er our fields his hateful chain ?
groan for Freedom's gift, in vain ? Oh, say, shall Prussia's banner be
A refuge for the stricken slave ? And shall the Russian serf go free
By Baikal's lake and Neva's wave ? And shall the wintry-bosomed Dane
Relax the iron hand of pride, And bid his bondmen cast the chain
From fettered soul and limb, aside ? VOL. I.