POEMS ON SLAVERY. POEMS ON SLAVERY. BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. SECOND EDITION. CAMBRIDGE: PUBLISHED BY JOHN OWEN. M DCCC XLII. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year eighteen hundred and forty-two, by H. W. LONGFELLOW, in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. CAMBRIDGE: METCALF, KEITH, AND NICHOLS, PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. CONTENTS. PAGE TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING 9 THE SLAVE'S DREAM 11 THE GOOD PART 15 THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL SWAMP 18 THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT 21 THE WITNESSES 23 THE QUADROON GIRL 26 THE WARNING 30 [The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea, in the latter part of October. I had not then heard of Dr. Channing's death. Since that event, the poem addressed to him is no longer appropriate. I have decided, however, to let it remain as it was written, a feeble testimony of my admiration for a great and good man.] POEMS. The noble horse, That, in his fiery youth, from his wide nostrils Neighed courage to his rider, and brake through Groves of opposed pikes, bearing his lord Safe to triumphant victory, old or wounded, Was set at liberty and freed from service. The Athenian mules, that from the quarry drew Marble, hewed for the Temple of the Gods, The great work ended, were dismissed and fed At the public cost; nay, faithful dogs have found Their sepulchres; but man, to man more cruel, Appoints no end to the sufferings of his slave. MASSINGER. TO WILLIAM E. CHANNING. The pages of thy book I read, And as I closed each one, My heart, responding, ever said, "Servant of God! well done!" Well done! Thy words are great and bold; At times they seem to me, Like Luther's, in the days of old, Half-battles for the free. Go on, until this land revokes The old and chartered Lie, The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes Insult humanity. A voice is ever at thy side Speaking in tones of might, Like the prophetic voice, that cried To John in Patmos, "Write!" Write! and tell out this bloody tale; Record this dire eclipse, This Day of Wrath, this Endless Wail, This dread Apocalypse! THE SLAVE'S DREAM. Beside the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand. Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his Native Land. Wide through the landscape of his dreams The lordly Niger flowed; Beneath the palm-trees on the plain Once more a king he strode; And heard the tinkling caravans Descend the mountain-road.