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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
Comes that messenger divine
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

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,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer;
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

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 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
Once more a king he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain-road.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;

They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,
They held him by the hand!-

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,
O'er plains where the tamarind grew;

Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,

And the ocean rose to view.

At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyæna scream;

And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds
Beside some hidden stream;

And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums
Through the triumph of his dream.

The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty;

And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,

That he started in his sleep, and smiled
At their tempestuous glee:

He did not feel the driver's whip,

Nor the burning heat of day;

For death had illumined the Land of Sleep,
And his lifeless body lay

A worn-out fetter, that the soul
Had broken and thrown away!

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,
And all her listless crew
Watched the gray alligator slide
Into the still bayou.

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.
In yonder broad lagoon ;
I only wait the evening tides,
And the rising of the moon.

Before them, with her face upraised,
In timid attitude,

Like one half curious, half amazed,
A Quadroon maiden stood.

Her eyes were large, and full of light,
Her arms and neck were bare;
No garment she wore save a kirtle bright,
And her own long, raven hair.

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.

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