"Art thou Christ of Heaven," quoth he, "So will I yield me unto thee." "I am not Christ the Great, Thou shalt not yield thee yet; I am an Unknown Knight, Three modest Maidens have me bedight." "Art thou a Knight elected, And have three Maidens thee bedight; The first tilt they together rode They put their steeds to the test; Now lie the lords upon the plain, And their blood runs unto death; Now sit the Maidens in the high tower, The youngest sorrows till death. POEMS ON SLAVERY. 1842. [The following Poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October. 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. And as I closed each one, 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 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, Like the prophetic voice, that cried, 66 To John in Patmos, Write!" Write! and tell out this bloody tale; This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, THE SLAVE'S DREAM. BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand. Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, Wide through the landscape of his dreams Beneath the palm-trees on the plain He saw once more his dark-eyed queen They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, A tear burst from the sleeper's lids And then at furious speed he rode His 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; 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 hyæna scream; And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, The forest, 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 smiled He did not feel the driver's whip, Nor the burning heat of day; For death had illumined the Land of Sleep, A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away! THE GOOD PART, THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. SHE dwells by great Kenhawa's side, And all her hope and all her pride Her soul, like the transparent air She reads to them at eventide And oft the blessed time foretells Their falling chains shall be. And following her beloved Lord, In decent poverty, She makes her life one sweet record And deed of charity. For she was rich, and gave up all To break the iron bands Of those who waited in her hall, Long since beyond the Southern sea It is their prayers, which never cease, Their blessing is the light of peace That shines upon her face. THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. IN dark fens of the Dismal Swamp The hunted Negro lay; He saw the fire of the midnight camp, And 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 vine Is spotted like the snake; Where hardly a human foot could pass, Or a human heart would dare, On the quaking turf of the green morass A poor old slave, infirm and lame; Great scars deformed his face; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, All things above were bright and fair, On him alone was the doom of pain, THE WITNESSES. IN Ocean's wide domains, With shackled feet and hands, Beyond the fall of dews, Are markets for men's lives; Their necks are galled with chains, Their wrists are cramped with gyves. Dead bodies, that the kite In deserts makes its prey; Murders, that with affright Scare schoolboys from their play! All evil thoughts and deeds; Anger, and lust, and pride; That choke Life's groaning tide! These are the woes of Slaves; They cry, from unknown graves, |