THE GOOD PART, THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. SHE dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, Her soul, like the transparent air She reads to them at eventide Of one who came to save; And oft the blessed time foretells Their falling chains shall be. She makes her life one sweet record For she was rich, and gave up all Of those who waited in her hall, Now earns her daily bread. It is their prayers, which never cease, That clothe her with such grace; Their blessing is the light of peace That shines upon her face. And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine Is spotted like the snake; Where hardly a human foot could pass, Or a human heart would dare, On the quaking turf of the green morass He crouched in the rank and tangled grass, Like a wild beast in his lair. A poor old slave, infirm and lame; And the rags, that hid his mangled frame, All things above were bright and fair, On him alone was the doom of pain, THE WITNESSES. IN Ocean's wide domains, There the black Slave-ship swims, Are not the sport of storms, Are markets for men's lives; In deserts makes its prey; All evil thoughts and deeds; They glare from the abyss; They cry, from unknown graves, "We are the Witnesses!" THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. LOUD he sang the Psalm of David! In that hour, when night is calmest, Brings the Slave this glad evangel? THE QUADROON GIRL. Under the shore his boat was tied, Odours of orange-flowers, and spice, The planter, under his roof of thatch, Like one half curious, half amazed, And her own long, raven hair. As lights in some cathedral aisle "The soil is barren,-the farm is old?" His heart within him was at strife For he knew whose passions gave her life, Whose blood ran in her veins. But the voice of nature was too weak; Her hands as icy cold. The Slaver led her from the door, He led her by the hand, Don C. What was the play? Lara. It was a dull affair; One of those comedies in which you see, As Lope says,* the history of the world Brought down from Genesis to the Day of Judgment. There were three duels fought in the first act, Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds, Laying their hands upon their hearts, and saying, "Oh, I am dead!" a lover in a closet, An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan, A Doña Inez with a black mantilla, Followed at twilight by an unknown lover, Who looks intently where he knows she is not! Don C. Of course the Preciosa danced to-night! Lara. And never better. Every footstep fell As lightly as a sunbeam on the water. I think the girl extremely beautiful. Don C. Almost beyond the privilege of woman! I saw her in the Prada yesterday. Her step was royal,-queen-like,-and her face As beautiful as a saint's in Paradise. Lara. May not a saint fall from her Paradise, And be no more a saint? Don C. Why do you ask? Lara. Because I have heard it said this angel fell, And, though she is a virgin outwardly, Within she is a sinner; like those panels Of doors and altar-pieces the old monks Painted in convents, with the Virgin Mary On the outside, and on the inside Venus! Don C. You do her wrong; indeed, you do her wrong! She is as virtuous as she is fair. Lara. How credulous you are! Why, look you, friend, *"La cólera de un Español sentado no se templa, sino le representan en dos horas hasta el final juicio desde el Génesis." --Lope de Vega. Greater faith! Lara. I have the greatest faith; for I believe Victorian is her lover. I believe That I shall be to-morrow; and thereafter Another, and another, and another, Chasing each other through her zodiac, As Taurus chases Aries. (Enter FRANCISCO with a casket.) What speed with Preciosa? She is not to be purchased by your gold. Lara. Then I will try some other way to win her. Pray dost thou know Victorian? It is well. To-morrow morning bring that ring to me. Do not forget. Now light me to my bed. SCENE II.-A street in Madrid. Enter CHISPA, followed by Musicians, with a bagpipe, guitars, and other instruments. Chispa. Abernuncio Satanas!* and * "Digo, Señora, respondio Sancho, a plague on all lovers who ramble about at night, drinking the elements, instead of sleeping quietly in their beds. Every dead man to his cemetery, say I; and every friar to his monastery. Now, here's my master, Victorian, yesterday a cow-keeper, and to-day a gentleman; yesterday a student, and to-day a lover; and I must be up later than the nightingale, for as the abbot sings so must the sacristan respond. God grant he may soon be married, for then shall all this serenading cease. Ay, marry! marry! marry! Mother, what does marry mean? It means to spin, to bear children, and to weep, my daughter! And, of a truth, there is something more in matrimony than the wedding-ring. (To the Musicians.) And now, gentlemen, Pax vobiscum! as the ass said to the cabbages. Pray walk this way; and don't hang down your heads. It is no disgrace to have an old father and a ragged shirt. Now look you, you are gentlemen who lead the life of crickets; you enjoy hunger by day and noise by night. Yet, I beseech you, for this once be not loud, but pathetic; for it is a serenade to a damsel in bed, and not to the Man in the Moon. Your object is not to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling dreams. Therefore, each shall not play upon his instrument as if it were the only one in the universe, but gently, and with a certain modesty, according with the others. Pray how may I call thy name, friend? First Mus. Gerónimo Gil, at your service. Chispa. Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray, Gerónimo, is not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee? First Mus. Why so? Chispa. Because I have heard it said that Saturday is an unpleasant day with those who have but one shirt. Moreover, I have seen thee at the tavern, and if thou canst run as fast as thou lo que tengo dicho, que de los azotes abernuncio. Abrenuncio, habeis de decir, Sancho, y no como decis, dijo el Duque."-Don Quixote, Part II., ch. 35 |