THE WITNESSES.

And the voice of his devotion

Filled

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my soul with strange emotion; For its tones by turns were glad, Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.

Paul and Silas, in their prison,
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen,
And an earthquake's arm of might
Broke their dungeon gates at night.

But, alas! what holy angel

Brings the Slave this glad evangel? And what earthquake's arm of might Breaks his dungeon gates at night?

THE WITNESSES.

IN Ocean's wide domains,

Half buried in the sands,

Lie skeletons in chains,

With shackled feet and hands.

Beyond the fall of dews,

Deeper than plummet lies,

Float ships, with all their crews,

No more to sink nor rise.

There the black Slave-ship swims,

Freighted with human forms,

Whose fettered, fleshless limbs

Are not the sport of storms.

These are the bones of Slaves;
They gleam from the abyss;

They cry, from yawning waves,
"We are the Witnesses!"

Within Earth's wide domains

Are markets for men's lives;

Their necks are galled with chains,
Their wrists are cramped with gyves.

Dead bodies, that the kite

In deserts makes its prey;

Murders, that with affright

Scare schoolboys from their play!

All evil thoughts and deeds;

Anger, and lust, and pride;

The foulest, rankest weeds,

That choke Life's groaning tide!

These are the woes of Slaves;

They glare from the abyss;

They cry, from unknown graves,

"We are the Witnesses!"

Under the shore his boat was tied, And all her listless crew

Watched the gray alligator slide

Into the still bayou.

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Odours 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 large, and full of light,
Her arms and neck were bare;

No garment she wore save a kirtle bright,
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 QUADROON GIRL.

"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!

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