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The happy child in dragon's way
Shall frolic with delight;
And all in love unite!
That all the world may see;
That comes to set us free!
THE FOOLISH VIRGINS.
Late, late, so late ! and dark the night, and chill!
No light had we—for that we do repent;
No light! so late! and dark and chill the night!
Have we not heard the Bridegroom is so sweet 1
THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT.
Forced from home and all its pleasures,
Afric's coast I left forlorn!
O'er the raging billows borne.
Paid my price in paltry gold;
Minds are never to be sold!
Still in thought as free as ever,
What are England's rights, I ask, Me from my delights to sever,
Me to torture, me to task? Fleecy locks and black complexion
Cannot forfeit Nature's claim; Skins may differ, but affection
Dwells in white and black the same.
Why did all-creating Nature
Make the plant for which we toil 1 Sighs must fan it, tears must water,
Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters, iron-hearted,
Lolling at your jovial boards, Think how many backs have smarted
For the sweets your cane affords.
Is there, as ye sometimes tell us,
Is there One who reigns on high 1 Has He bid you buy and sell us,
Speaking from His throne, the sky? Ask Him if your knotted scourges,
Matches, blood-extorting screws, Are the means which duty urges
Agents of His will to use?
Hark! He answers !—wild tornadoes,
Strewing yonder sea with wrecks, Wasting towns, plantations, meadows,
Are the voice with which He speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations
Afric's sons should undergo, Fix'd their tyrants' habitations
Where His whirlwinds answer—No.
By our blood in Afric wasted
By the miseries we've tasted
By our sufferings since ye brought us
All sustained by patience, taught us
Deem our nation brutes no longer,
Till some reason ye shall find
Than the colour of our kind.
Tarnish all your boasted powers,
Ere you proudly question ours!
How wild and dim this life appears!
One long, deep, heavy sigh,
Are faintly glittering by!
Dissolves at once in snow.
Then, like a dream, are gone.
We scarce believe it shone!
Heaven-airs amid the harp-strings dwell,
They cease,—and the soul is a silent cell,
Dream follows dream, through the long night
But, ere the breath of morning flowers,
That gorgeous world flies past;
Glides by us on this earth;
In sadness, or in mirth!
THE CATABACT OF LODORE
Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Here smoking and frothing,
Its tumults and wrath in,
It hastens along, conflicting, strong,
Now striking and raging,
As if a war waging,
Its caverns and rocks among.
Rising and leaping,
Receding and speeding,
And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,