These are the woes of Slaves; They glare from the abyss; They cry, from unknown graves, "We are the Witnesses!" 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. Odors 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, like a falcon's, gray, Her arms and neck were bare; No garment she wore save a kirtle gay, 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 accursed gains; For he knew whose passions gave her life, Whose blood ran in her veins. But the voice of nature was too weak; He took the glittering gold! Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, Her hands as icy cold. The Slaver led her from the door, He led her by the hand, To be his slave and paramour In a strange and distant land! THE WARNING. Beware! The Israelite of old, who tore The lion in his path,--when, poor and blind, He saw the blessed light of heaven no more, Shorn of his noble strength and forced to grind In prison, and at last led forth to be A pander to Philistine revelry,-- Upon the pillars of the temple laid His desperate hands, and in its overthrow Destroyed himself, and with him those who made A cruel mockery of his sightless woe; The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, Expired, and thousands perished in the fall! There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of steel, Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, And shake the pillars of this Commonweal, Till the vast Temple of our liberties A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. END. WORKS PUBLISHED BY JOHN OWEN, CAMBRIDGE. I. VOICES OF THE NIGHT. BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 6th Edition. 16mo. Boards. II. THE SAME. Royal 8vo. Fine paper. Boards. III.