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At night he heard the lion roar,

And the hyæna scream;
And the river-horse as he crushed the reeds

Beside some hidden stream;
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,

Through the triumph of his dream.
The forests, with their myriad tongues,

Shouted of liberty;
And the blasts of the desert cried aloud,

With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep and smiled

At their tempestuous glee.
He did not feel the driver's whip,

Nor the burning heat of day;
For death had illumined the land of sleep,

And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul

Had broken and thrown away!


She dwells by great Kenhawa's side,

In valleys green and cool;
And all her hope and all her pride

Are in the village school.
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;
To cast the captive's chains aside,

And liberate the slave.

And oft the blessed time foretells

When all men shall be free;
And musical, as silver bells,

Their falling chains shall be.

And following her beloved Lord,

In decent poverty,
She makes her life one sweet record

And deed of charity.
For she was rich and gave up all

To break the iron bands
Of those who waited in her hall,

And laboured in her lands.

Long since beyond the southern sea

Their outbound sails have sped,
While she, in meek humility,

Now earns her daily bread.
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.


Loud he sang the psalms of David !
He, a Negro, and enslaved,
Sang of Israel's victory,
Sang of Zion, bright and free.

In that hour, when night is calmest,
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist,
In a voice so sweet and clear
That I could not choose but hear.
Songs of triumph, and ascriptions,
Such as reached the swart Egyptians,
When upon the Red Sea coast
Perished Pharaoh and his host.

And the voice of his devotion
Filled my soul with strange emotion;
For its tones by turns were glad,
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.
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
Brings the slave this glad evangel?
And what earthquake's arm of might
Breaks his dungeon-gates at night?

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 glow-worms shine,

In bulrush and in brake; Where waving mosses shroud the pine, And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine

Is spotted like the snake;

Where hardly a human foot could pass,

Or a human heart would dare, On the quaking turf of the green morass He crouched in the rank and tangled grass,

Like a wild beast in his lair.

A poor old slave, infirm and lame;

Great scars deformed his face; On his forehead he bore the brand of shame And the rags, that hid his mangled frame,

Were the livery of disgrace.

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,

From the morning of his birth;
On him alone the curse of Cain
Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain,

And struck him to the earth!

THE QUADROON GIRL. The Slaver in the broad lagoon

Lay moored with idle sail;
He waited for the rising moon,

And for the evening gale.
Under the shore his boat was tied,

And all her listless crew
Watched the gray alligator slide

Into the still bayou.

Odours 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,

Smoked thoughtfully and slow;
The Slaver's thumb was on the latch,

He seemed in haste to go.
He said, "My ship at anchor rides

In yonder broad lagoon;
I only wait the evening tides,

And the rising of the moon.
Before them, with her face upraised,

In timid attitude,
Like one half curious, half amazed,

A Quadroon maiden stood.
Her eyes were large, and full of light,

Her arms and neck were bare;
No garment she wore, save a kirtle bright,

And her own long, raven hair.
And on her lips there played a smile

As holy, meek, and faint,
As lights in some cathedral aisle

The features of a saint.
“The soil is barren,-the farm is old;'

The thoughtful Planter said;
Then looked upon the Slaver's gold,

And then upon the maid.
His heart within him was at strife

With such accursèd gains;
For he knew whose passions gave her life,

Whose blood ran in her veins,

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