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, a feeble testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.

THE pages of thy book I read,
And as I closed each one,

My heart, responding, ever said,
"Servant of God! well done!"

Well done! Thy words are great and bold;
At times they seem to me,
Like Luther's in the days of old,

Half-battles for the free.

Go on, until this land revokes

The old and chartered Lie,

The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes Insult humanity.

A voice is ever at thy side

Speaking in tones of might,

Like the prophetic voice, that cried

To John in Patmos, "Write!"

Write! and tell out this bloody tale;

Record this dire eclipse,

This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, This dread Apocalypse!

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.

THE SLAVE'S DREAM.

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.

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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.

M