All things above were bright and fair, On him alone was the doom of pain, 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 Paul and Silas, in their prison, Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen, And an earthquake's arm of might Broke their dungeon-gates at night. 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, Lie skeletons in chains, With shackled feet and hands. Beyond the fall of dews, Deeper than plummet lies, Float ships, with all their crews, No more to sink nor rise. There the black Slave-ship swims, These are the bones of Slaves; Line 16. No more to sink or rise. 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 school-boys from their play! All evil thoughts and deeds; That choke Life's groaning tide! These are the woes of Slaves; THE QUADROON GIRL. THE Slaver in the broad lagoon Lay moored with idle sail; He waited for the rising moon, And for the evening gale. Under the shore his boat was tied, Odors of orange-flowers, and spice, Reached them from time to time, Like airs that breathe from Paradise The Planter, under his roof of thatch, He said, "My ship at anchor rides Before them, with her face upraised, Like one half curious, half amazed, Her eyes were large, and full of light, And on her lips there played a smile As lights in some cathedral aisle The features of a saint. "The soil is barren, the farm is old,” The thoughtful planter said; Line 15. Her eyes were, like a falcon's, gray, Then looked upon the Slaver's gold, And then upon the maid. His heart within him was at strife For he knew whose passions gave her life, But the voice of nature was too weak; Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, The Slaver led her from the door, He led her by the hand, To be his slave and paramour THE WARNING. Written before the voyage to Europe, but not printed until included in Poems on Slavery. BEWARE! The Israelite of old, who tore The lion in his path, when, poor and blind, He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind In prison, and at last led forth to be A pander to Philistine revelry,— Upon the pillars of the temple laid His desperate hands, and in its overthrow |