From morn till night he followed their flight, 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 reeds And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums, The forests, with their myriad tongues, And the blast of the desert cried aloud, He did not feel the driver's whip, For death had illumined the land oí sleep, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away. LONGFELLOW. THE CHRISTIAN SLAVE.* A CHRISTIAN! going, gone! Who bids for God's own image?—for His grace My God! can such things be! Hast Thou not said that whatsoe'er is done In that sad victim, then, Child of Thy pitying love, I see Thee stand- 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 Back on your heads the gathered wrong of years, Con well thy lesson o'er, Thou prudent teacher-tell the toiling slave, * 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 But wisely shut the ray Of God's free Gospel from her simple heart, So shalt thou deftly raise The market price of human flesh; and while 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, Who, with his master, to the Prophet kneels, Cheers for the turbaned Bey Of robber-peopled Tunis! he hath torn But our poor slave in vain Turns to the Christian shrine his aching eyes- And rivet on his chain. God of all right! how long Shall priestly robbers at Thine altar stand, 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 coffle's weary chain,— Hoarse, horrible, and strong Rises to Heaven that agonizing cry, HOW LONG-OH, GOD, HOW LONG! WHITTIER. OUR COUNTRYMEN IN CHAINS. OUR fellow-countrymen in chains! Where rolled the storm of Freedom's war! A wail where Camden's martyrs fell By every shrine of patriot blood, From Moultrie's wall and Jasper's well! By storied hill and hallowed grot, The groan of breaking hearts is there- What, ho!—our countrymen in chains! 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 Say, shall these writhing slaves of Wrong, What! shall we send, with lavish breath, Strikes for his freedom, or a grave? Our light on all her altars burning? Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France, By Vendome's pile and Schoenbrun's wall, |