All things above were bright and fair, On him alone was the doom of pain, On him alone the curse of Cain Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. 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, Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, 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, 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 WITNESSES. 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, There the black slave-ship swims, Are not the sport of storms. These are the bones of Slaves ; Within Earth's wide domains 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; 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 GIRL. THE Slaver in the broad lagoon Under the shore his boat was tied, Odours of orange-flowers and spice Reached them from time to time, Like airs that breathe from Paradise Upon 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 rides And the rising of the moon." Before them, with her face upraised, In timid attitude, Like one half curious, half amazed, Her eyes were large and full of light, No garment she wore save a kirtle bright, And on her lips there played a smile As holy, meek, and faint, As lights in some cathedral aisle The 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 strife With 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; Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, |