They, the holy ones and weakly Who the cross of suffering bore,— Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more! And with them the Being beauteous, Who unto my youth was given,More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes,— Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended, O, though oft depressed and lonely, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died! FROM "POEMS ON SLAVERY." (1842.) 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, He saw his Native Land. Wide through the landscape of his dreams 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. Before him, like a blood-red flag, The bright flamingoes flew ; From morn till night he followed their flight, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, And the ocean rose to view. At night he heard the lion roar, And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums The forests, with their myriad tongues, And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, That he started in his sleep, and smiled He did not feel the driver's whip, Nor the burning heat of day; For death had illumined the Land of Sleep, A worn-out fetter, that the soul THE QUADROON GIRL. THE Slaver in the broad lagoon Under the shore his boat was tied, Odours of orange-flowers, and spice, The Planter, under his roof of thatch, The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, 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 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. |