[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 writ ten, a feeble testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.] POEMS ON SLAVERY. The noble horse, That, in his fiery youth, from his wide nostrils TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING. THE pages of thy book I read, And as I closed each one, My heart, responding, ever said, "Servant of God! well done!" 214 P EMS ON SLAVERY. 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 and 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, Like the prophetic voice, that cried Write! and tell out this bloody tale: Record this dire eclipse, This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, This dread Apocalypse! THE SLAVE'S DREAM BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand. Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep. He saw his Native Land. Wide through the landscape of his dreams The lordly Niger flowed; Beneath the palm-trees on the plain 270 POEMS ON SLAVERY. Once more a king he strode; And heard the tinkling caravans 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 Along the Niger's bank; 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 |