A Christian up for sale! Wet with her blood your whips--o’ertask her frame, Make her life loathsome with your wrong and shame, _Her_ patience shall not fail! Cheers for the turbaned Bey Of robber-peopled Tunis! he hath torn The dark slave-dungeons open, and hath borne Their inmates into day: But our poor slave in vain Turns to the Christian shrine her aching eyes-- Its rites will only swell her market price, And rivet on her chain. God of all right! how long Shall priestly robbers at Thine altar stand, Lifting in prayer to Thee the bloody hand And haughty brow of wrong! O, from the fields of cane, From the low rice-swamp, from the trader’s cell-- From the black slave-ship’s foul and loathsome hell, And coffle’s weary chain-- Hoarse, horrible, and strong, Rises to heaven that agonizing cry, Filling the arches of the hollow sky, HOW LONG, O LORD, HOW LONG! THE SLAVE MINGO’S POEM. _To the Editor of the Boston Journal_: [The following remarkable poem was sent me from the South by a friend, who informs me that the author of it was a slave named Mingo, a man of wonderful talents, and on that account oppressed by his master. While in the slave-prison, he penciled this poetic gem on one of the beams, which was afterwards found and copied. My friend adds that Mingo did escape, at night, but was recaptured and destroyed by the bloodhounds. My friend promises to send other poems of his, which, he says, are in possession of Mingo’s aged wife.] C. W. Good God! and must I leave them now-- My wife, my children, in their woe? ’Tis mockery to say I’m sold-- But I forget these chains so cold, Which goad my bleeding limbs, though high My reason mounts above the sky. Dear wife, they cannot sell the rose Of love, that in my bosom glows. Remember, as your tears may start, They cannot sell th’ immortal part! Thou sun, which lightest bond and free, Tell me, I pray, is liberty The lot of those who noblest feel, And oftest to Jehovah kneel? Then I may say, but not with pride, I feel the rushings of the tide Of reason and of eloquence, Which strive and yearn for eminence. I feel high manhood on me now, A spirit-glory on my brow; I feel a thrill of music roll, Like angel harpings, through my soul, While poesy, with rustling wings, Upon my spirit rests and sings; _He_ sweeps my heart’s deep throbbing lyre, Who touched Isaiah’s lips with fire.