For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP. And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away! THE GOOD PART, THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY. SHE dwells by Great Kenhawa's side, 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 ; And oft the blessed time foretells And following her beloved Lord, She makes her life one sweet record For she was rich, and gave up all Long since beyond the Southern Sea 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. 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, Where waving mosses shroud the pine, Where hardly a human foot could pass, On the quaking turf of the green morass A poor old slave, infirm and lame; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame, 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, THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT. LOUD he sang the psalm of David! Sang of Israel's victory, In that hour, when night is calmest, Songs of triumph, and ascriptions, Such as reached the swart Egyptians, His heart within him was at strife For he knew whose passions gave her life, But the voice of nature was too weak; He took the glittering gold! He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, Upon the pillars of the temple laid His desperate hands, and in its overthrow Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, Destroyed himself, and with him those who Her hands as icy cold. The slaver led her from the door, He led her by the hand, To be his slave and paramour THE WARNING. BEWARE! The Israelite of old, who tore made A cruel mockery of his sightless woe; There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of steel, Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, And shake the pillars of this commonweal, Till the vast temple of our liberties The lion in his path, when, poor and blind, | A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. Almost beyond the privilege of woman! You were not at the play to-night, Don Carlos; I saw her in the Prado yesterday. How happened it? DON CARLOS. I had engagements elsewhere. Pray who was there? LARA. Why, all the town and court. The house was crowded; and the busy fans Among the gaily dressed and perfumed ladies Fluttered like butterflies among the flowers. There was the Countess of Medina Celi; The Goblin Lady with her Phantom Lover, Her step was royal, — queen-like, and her face As beauteous as a saint's in paradise. LARA. May not a saint fall from her paradise, And be no more a saint? DON CARLOS. Why do you ask? LARA. Because I have heard it said this angel fell, Nay, not to be won at all! The only virtue that a Gypsy prizes Is chastity. That is her only virtue. Dearer than life she holds it. I remember A Gypsy woman, a vile, shameless bawd, Whose craft was to betray the young and fair; And yet this woman was above all bribes. And when a noble lord, touched by her beauty, The wild and wizard beauty of her race, Offered her gold to be what she made others, She turned upon him, with a look of scorn, And smote him in the face! Some pledge and keepsake of her higher nature, And, like the diamond in the dark, retains DON CARLOS. And so good night. I wish you pleasant dreams, And greater faith in woman. LARA. [Exit. Greater faith! I have the greatest faith; for I believe Victorian is her lover. I believe That I shall be to-morrow; and thereafter Another, and another, and another, As Taurus chases Aries. Chasing each other through her zodiac, (Enter FRANCISCO with a casket.) Well, Francisco, What speed with Preciosa? FRANCISCO. None, my lord. She sends your jewels back, and bids 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? FRANCISCO. Yes, my lord; Holds something sacred, something undefiled, I saw him at the jeweller's to-day. LARA. Some quenchless gleam of the celestial light! What was he doing there? |