THE GOOD PART,

THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY.

SHE dwells by Great Kenhawa's side,
In valleys green and cool;
And all her hope and all her pride
Are in the village school.

Her soul, like the transparent air

That robes the hills above,
Though not of earth, encircles there
All things with arms of love.
And thus she walks among her girls
With praise and mild rebukes;
Subduing e'en rude village churls
By her angelic looks.

She reads to them at eventide

Of one who came to save;
To cast the captive's chains aside,
And liberate the slave.
And oft the blessed time foretells
When all men shall be free;
And musical, as silver bells,

Their falling chains shall be.
And following her beloved Lord,
In decent poverty,

She makes her life one sweet record
And deed of charity.

For she was rich, and gave up all
To break the iron bands
Of those who waited in her hall,
And laboured in her lands.
Long since beyond the Southern sea
Their outbound sails have sped,
While she, in meek humility,

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.

THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL
SWAMP.

In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp
The hunted Negro lay;

He saw the fire of the midnight camp,
And heard at times a horse's tramp

And a bloodhound's distant bay. Where will-o'-the-wisps and glowworms shine,

In bulrush and in brake;

Where waving mosses shroud the pine,

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;
Great scars deformed his face;

On his forehead he bore the brand of shame,

And the rags, that hid his mangled frame,
Were the livery of disgrace.

All things above were bright and fair,
All things were glad and free;
Lithe squirrels darted here and there,
And wild birds filled the echoing air
With songs of Liberty!

On him alone was the doom of pain,
From the morning of his birth;
On him alone the curse of Cain
Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain,
And struck him to the earth!

THE WITNESSES.

IN Ocean's wide domains,
Half buried in the sands,
Like 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,
Freighted with human forms,
Whose fettered, fleshless limbs

Are not the sport of storms,
These are the bones of Slaves;

They gleam from the abyss; They cry, from yawning waves, "We are the Witnesses!" 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 schoolboys from their play!

All evil thoughts and deeds;
Anger, and lust, and pride;
The foulest, rankest weeds,
That choke Life's groaning tide!
These are the woes of Slaves;

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!
He, a Negro and enslaved,
Sang of Israel's victory,
Sang of Zion, bright and free.

In that hour, when night is calmest,
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist,
In a voice so sweet and clear
That I could not choose but hear.
Songs of triumph, and ascriptions,
Such as reached the swart Egyptians,
When upon the Red Sea coast
Perished Pharaoh and his host.
And the voice of his devotion
Filled my soul with strange emotion;
For its tones by turns were glad,
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.
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 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.

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.

His heart within him was at strife
With such accursed gains;

For he knew whose passions gave her life,

Whose blood ran in her veins.

But the voice of nature was too weak;
He took the glittering gold!
Then pale as death grew the maiden's
cheek,

Her hands as icy cold.

The Slaver led her from the door,

He led her by the hand,
To be his slave and paramour
In a strange and distant land!

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.

Lara. And does that That Preciosa is above suspicion? Don C. It proves a nobleman may be repulsed When he thinks conquest easy. I

believe

me tell you

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?
Fran.
Yes, my lord;
I saw him at the jeweller's to-day.
Lara. What was he doing there?
Fran.
I saw him buy
A golden ring, that had a ruby in it.
Lara. Was there another like it?
Fran.
One so like it
I could not choose between them.
Lara.

It is well. To-morrow morning bring that ring to

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.