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!"

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 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 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.