The noble horse, drew That, in his fiery youth, from his wide nostrils MASSINGER. POEMS ON SLAVERY. [The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, before I 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. THE pages of thy book I read, "Servant of God! well done!" Well done! Thy words are great and bold; Half-battles for the free. Go on, until this land revokes The old and chartered Lie, The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes Insult humanity. A voice is ever at thy side Speaking in tones of might, 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 Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, Wide through the landscape of his dreams. Descend the mountain-road. 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 fell into the sand. And then at furious speed he rode And, with a martial clank, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Before him, like a blood-red flag, From morn till night he followed their flight, 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 Beside 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, That he started in his sleep and smiled |