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IT IS NOT ALWAYS MAY.-TO THE RIVER CHARLES.
And in better hours and brighter,
Not for this alone I love thee,
Nor because thy waves of blue From celestial seas above thee
Take their own celestial hue.
Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,
More than this; - thy name reminds me Of three friends, all true and tried; And that name, like magic, binds me Closer, closer to thy side.
Friends my soul with joy remembers !
How like quivering flames they start, When I fan the living embers
On the hearth-stone of my heart!
And he who has not learned to know
THE shades of night were falling fast,
His brow was sad; his eye beneath
In happy homes he saw the light
"Try not the Pass!" the old man said; "Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior!
TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING.
THE pages of thy book I read,
Well done! Thy words are great and bold;
Go on, until this land revokes
The old and chartered Lie,
The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes
There in the twilight cold and gray,
POEMS ON SLAVERY.
[The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October, 1842. 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 written, in testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.]
"O stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Write! and tell out this bloody tale;
"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche!"
THE SLAVE'S DREAM.
BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay,
His breast was bare, his matted hair
This was the peasant's last Good-night,
At break of day, as heavenward
A traveller, by the faithful hound,