Side by side with the Fijean war-club were seen. The battle-axe, steeped in Mohammedan gore, The Indian tomahawk--Scottish claymore And the rude scalping knife of the savage there lay With the civilized bayonet rusting away. Guns, pistols, revolvers, mortars, cannon and bombs Were placed in the midst of gongs and of drums. Here new patent rifles from near and from far Disclosed the latest improvements in war. All sorts of vessels for fight were displayed, The Malayan war junk, for piracy made, The frigate, with rows of black guns gaping wide, And the iron-ribbed Monitor’s steel-plated side. On the long lofty walls of the building, were hung Scenes of strife, from the day that our planet was young, To the hour, when mankind, by one solemn vow, Were pledged no longer such crimes to allow. ’Twas a sickening sight--like demons from hell, Glared the eyes of the wounded and dying who fell, Trampled down in hot haste, like the mire in the street, Unregarded or spurned by the wayfarers’ feet. Above, the dun war-clouds their canopy drew, And with horror I shrunk from the terrible view, Weeping much that man, made in likeness divine, To conflict and bloodshed should ever incline. But, as gleams of bright silver will oft line a cloud Cold, dismal and black as a funeral shroud, So, high o’er the red tide of battle, a scroll Inscribed by an angel-hand, seemed to unroll: “The work of the just and the righteous is peace-- Its effect, rest and surety that never shall cease.” Light breaking again in my sorrowful heart, With more cheerful feelings I rose to depart, But again was amazed, more relics to find Of the devil’s vast power and rule o’er mankind. Man’s record was here with Slavery’s stains, Its whips and its handcuffs--its fetters and chains. In the midst, the old time-worn whipping-post stood, Its platform deep stained with long streams of blood, And on it the form of a suppliant slave Beseeching for mercy and aid no one gave. Jeers and taunts from the crowd were the only reply And demoniac hate shone forth from each eye. Near by was an auction, whence rose the loud cry, “Likely negroes for sale! come, gentlemen, buy! Here goes a mulatto, young, handsome and sound, Note her beautiful teeth, her limbs smooth and round. Mark her elegant bust, her long glossy hair, And her ankle that will with Venus’ compare. Such a bright, lovely face is not seen every day; Then put her up, gentlemen, what do you say? Not a thousand is bid!--she must go on the shelf; At such a low price I will take her myself. Two thousand! “down came the quick hammer, “she’s gone.” The auctioneer growled in a low sneering tone, And the only reply was the slave’s subdued groan. Here’s another chance, gentlemen--come near the stand!