Anti-Slavery Poems and Songs of Labor and Reform Part 16

As they who, tossing midst the storm at night, While turning sh.o.r.eward, where a beacon shone, Meet the walled blackness of the heaven alone, So, on the turbulent waves of party tossed, In gloom and tempest, men have seen thy light Quenched in the darkness. At thy hour of noon, While life was pleasant to thy undimmed sight, And, day by day, within thy spirit grew A holier hope than young Ambition knew, As through thy rural quiet, not in vain, Pierced the sharp thrill of Freedom's cry of pain, Man of the millions, thou art lost too soon Portents at which the bravest stand aghast,-- The birth-throes of a Future, strange and vast, Alarm the land; yet thou, so wise and strong, Suddenly summoned to the burial bed, Lapped in its slumbers deep and ever long, Hear'st not the tumult surging overhead.

Who now shall rally Freedom's scattering host?

Who wear the mantle of the leader lost?

Who stay the march of slavery? He whose voice Hath called thee from thy task-field shall not lack Yet bolder champions, to beat bravely back The wrong which, through his poor ones, reaches Him: Yet firmer hands shall Freedom's torchlights trim, And wave them high across the abysmal black, Till bound, dumb millions there shall see them and rejoice.

10th mo., 1847.

THE SLAVES OF MARTINIQUE.

Suggested by a daguerreotype taken from a small French engraving of two negro figures, sent to the writer by Oliver Johnson.

BEAMS of noon, like burning lances, through the tree-tops flash and glisten, As she stands before her lover, with raised face to look and listen.

Dark, but comely, like the maiden in the ancient Jewish song Scarcely has the toil of task-fields done her graceful beauty wrong.

He, the strong one and the manly, with the va.s.sal's garb and hue, Holding still his spirit's birthright, to his higher nature true;

Hiding deep the strengthening purpose of a freeman in his heart, As the gregree holds his Fetich from the white man's gaze apart.

Ever foremost of his comrades, when the driver's morning horn Calls away to stifling mill-house, to the fields of cane and corn.

Fall the keen and burning lashes never on his back or limb; Scarce with look or word of censure, turns the driver unto him.

Yet, his brow is always thoughtful, and his eye is hard and stern; Slavery's last and humblest lesson he has never deigned to learn.

And, at evening, when his comrades dance before their master's door, Folding arms and knitting forehead, stands he silent evermore.

G.o.d be praised for every instinct which rebels against a lot Where the brute survives the human, and man's upright form is not!

As the serpent-like bejuco winds his spiral fold on fold Round the tall and stately ceiba, till it withers in his hold;

Slow decays the forest monarch, closer girds the fell embrace, Till the tree is seen no longer, and the vine is in its place;

So a base and b.e.s.t.i.a.l nature round the va.s.sal's manhood twines, And the spirit wastes beneath it, like the ceiba choked with vines.

G.o.d is Love, saith the Evangel; and our world of woe and sin Is made light and happy only when a Love is s.h.i.+ning in.

Ye whose lives are free as suns.h.i.+ne, finding, where- soe'er ye roam, Smiles of welcome, looks of kindness, making all the world like home;

In the veins of whose affections kindred blood is but a part., Of one kindly current throbbing from the universal heart;

Can ye know the deeper meaning of a love in Slavery nursed, Last flower of a lost Eden, blooming in that Soil accursed?

Love of Home, and Love of Woman!--dear to all, but doubly dear To the heart whose pulses elsewhere measure only hate and fear.

All around the desert circles, underneath a brazen sky, Only one green spot remaining where the dew is never dry!

From the horror of that desert, from its atmosphere of h.e.l.l, Turns the fainting spirit thither, as the diver seeks his bell.

'T is the fervid tropic noontime; faint and low the sea-waves beat; Hazy rise the inland mountains through the glimmer of the heat,--

Where, through mingled leaves and blossoms, arrowy sunbeams flash and glisten, Speaks her lover to the slave-girl, and she lifts her head to listen:--

"We shall live as slaves no longer! Freedom's hour is close at hand!

Rocks her bark upon the waters, rests the boat upon the strand!

"I have seen the Haytien Captain; I have seen his swarthy crew, Haters of the pallid faces, to their race and color true.

"They have sworn to wait our coming till the night has pa.s.sed its noon, And the gray and darkening waters roll above the sunken moon!"

Oh, the blessed hope of freedom! how with joy and glad surprise, For an instant throbs her bosom, for an instant beam her eyes!

But she looks across the valley, where her mother's hut is seen, Through the snowy bloom of coffee, and the lemon- leaves so green.

And she answers, sad and earnest: "It were wrong for thee to stay; G.o.d hath heard thy prayer for freedom, and his finger points the way.

"Well I know with what endurance, for the sake of me and mine, Thou hast borne too long a burden never meant for souls like thine.

"Go; and at the hour of midnight, when our last farewell is o'er, Kneeling on our place of parting, I will bless thee from the sh.o.r.e.

"But for me, my mother, lying on her sick-bed all the day, Lifts her weary head to watch me, coming through the twilight gray.

"Should I leave her sick and helpless, even freedom, shared with thee, Would be sadder far than bondage, lonely toil, and stripes to me.

"For my heart would die within me, and my brain would soon be wild; I should hear my mother calling through the twilight for her child!"

Blazing upward from the ocean, s.h.i.+nes the sun of morning-time, Through the coffee-trees in blossom, and green hedges of the lime.

Side by side, amidst the slave-gang, toil the lover and the maid; Wherefore looks he o'er the waters, leaning forward on his spade?

Sadly looks he, deeply sighs he: 't is the Haytien's sail he sees, Like a white cloud of the mountains, driven seaward by the breeze.

But his arm a light hand presses, and he hears a low voice call Hate of Slavery, hope of Freedom, Love is mightier than all.

1848.

THE CURSE OF THE CHARTER-BREAKERS.

The rights and liberties affirmed by Magna Charta were deemed of such importance, in the thirteenth century, that the Bishops, twice a year, with tapers burning, and in their pontifical robes, p.r.o.nounced, in the presence of the king and the representatives of the estates of England, the greater excommunication against the infringer of that instrument.

The imposing ceremony took place in the great Hall of Westminster. A copy of the curse, as p.r.o.nounced in 1253, declares that, "by the authority of Almighty G.o.d, and the blessed Apostles and Martyrs, and all the saints in heaven, all those who violate the English liberties, and secretly or openly, by deed, word, or counsel, do make statutes, or observe then being made, against said liberties, are accursed and sequestered from the company of heaven and the sacraments of the Holy Church."

William Penn, in his admirable political pamphlet, England's Present Interest Considered, alluding to the curse of the Charter- breakers, says: "I am no Roman Catholic, and little value their other curses; yet I declare I would not for the world incur this curse, as every man deservedly doth, who offers violence to the fundamental freedom thereby repeated and confirmed."

IN Westminster's royal halls, Robed in their pontificals, England's ancient prelates stood For the people's right and good.