And the voice of his devotion 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 THE QUADROON GIRL. THE Slaver in the broad lagoon Under the shore his boat was tied, Odors 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, THE QUADROON GIRL. He said, "My ship at anchor rides I only wait the evening tides, Before them, with her face upraised, Like one half curious, half amazed, Her eyes were large, and full of light, No garment she wore, save a kirtle bright, And on her lips there played a smile As lights in some cathedral aisle The features of a saint. "The soil is barren,-the farm is old;" 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! Then pale as death grew the maiden's check, 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! 141 THE WARNING. BEWARE! The Israelite of old, who tore A pander to Philistine revelry, Upon the pillars of the temple laid His desperate hands, and in its overthrow 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 A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. |