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The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
THE QUADROON GIRL.
THE Slaver in the broad lagoon
Lay moored with idle sail ;
And for the evening gale.
Under the shore his boat was tied,
And all her listless crew
Into the still bayou.
Odours of orange-flowers, and spice,
Reached them from time to time,
Upon a world of crime.
The Planter, under his roof of thatch,
Smoked thoughtfully and slow;
He seemed in haste to go.
He said, “My ship at anchor rides
In yonder broad lagoon;
And the rising of the moon."
Before them, with her face upraised,
In timid attitude,
A Quadroon maiden stood.
Her eyes were large, and full of light,
Her arms and neck were bare ;
And her own long, raven hair.
And on her lips there played a smile,
As holy, meek, and faint,
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 accursèd gains ;
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,
In a strange and distant land!
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.*
THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
* See 2 Chron. xxxii.
THE SLAVE'S DREAM.
BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand ;
Was buried in the sand.
He saw his Native Land.
Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed;
Once more a king he strode,
Descend the mountain-road.
He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;
They held him by the hand !-
And fell into the sand.
And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger's bank;
And, with a martial clank,
Smiting his stallion's flank. Before him, like a blood-red flag,
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.
At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyena scream,
Beside some hidden stream;
Through the triumph of his dream.
Shouted of liberty;
With a voice so wild and free,
At their tempestuous glee.
Nor the burning heat of day;
And his lifeless body lay
Had broken and thrown away!
THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR, AT
CAEN IN NORMANDY_1087.*
BY MRS. HEMANS.
LOWLY upon his bier
The royal Conqueror lay ;
Silent in war-array.
*“The Conqueror was buried in the church of St. Stephen, which he had built, but his funeral was singularly interrupted. At the moment that the coffin was being lowered into the grave, a man of low degree, raising himself from the crowd, exclaimed, 'Clerks, Bishops, this land is mine; it was the site of my father's house; the man for whom you pray took it from me by force to build his church. I have not sold my ground, I have not pawned it, I have not given it; it is my right, and I claim it.