THE GOBLET OF LIFE. FILLED is Life's goblet to the brim; With solemn voice and slow. No purple flowers, — no garlands green, Thick leaves of mistletoe. This goblet, wrought with curious art, Is filled with waters, that upstart, When the deep fountains of the heart, By strong convulsions rent apart, Are running all to waste. And as it mantling passes round, Above the lowly plants it towers, It gave new strength, and fearless mood; A wreath of fennel wore. Then in Life's goblet freely press, New light and strength they give! And he who has not learned to know The prayer of Ajax was for light; To see his foeman's face. Let our unceasing, earnest prayer Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon, Be, too, for light, for strength to bear May glides onward into June. Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Bear a lily in thy hand; Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, O, that dew, like balm, shall steal POEMS ON SLAVERY. [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 hini 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!" They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks, They held him by the hand! A tear burst from the sleeper's lids And fell into the sand. Well done! Thy words are great and And then at furious speed he rode 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, Along the Niger's bank; His bridle-reins were golden chains, And, with a martial clank, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel Smiting his stallion's flank. The feudal curse, whose whips and yokes Before him, like a blood-red flag, 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, Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, Wide through the landscape of his dreams He saw once more his dark-eyed queen Among her children stand; The bright flamingoes flew ; From morn till night he followed their flight, O'er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts, And the ocean rose to view. |