[The following poems, with one exception, were written at sea,
in the latter part of October, 1842. 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, in testimony of my admiration for
a great and good man.]
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.
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