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[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.]

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They clasped his neck, they kissed his Her soul, like the transparent air

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At night he heard the lion roar, And the hyena scream,

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That robes the hills above, Though not of earth, encircles there All things with arms of love.

And thus she walks among her girls
With praise and mild rebukes;
Subduing e'en rude village churls
By her angelic looks.

She reads to them at eventide
Of One who came to save;
To cast the captive's chains aside
And liberate the slave.

And oft the blessed time foretells
When all men shall be free;
And musical, as silver bells,

Their falling chains shall be.

And following her beloved Lord,
In decent poverty,

She makes her life one sweet record
And deed of charity.

And the river-horse, as he crushed the For she was rich, and gave up all

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The forests, with their myriad tongues,

Shouted of liberty;

To break the iron bands Of those who waited in her hall, And labored in her lands.

Long since beyond the Southern Sea
Their outbound sails have sped,
While she, in meek humility,
Now earns her daily bread.

And the Blast of the Desert cried It is their prayers, which never cease

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Nor the burning heat of day;

That clothe her with such grace; Their blessing is the light of peace That shines upon her face.

THE SLAVE IN THE DISMAL

SWAMP

For Death had illumined the Land of IN dark fens of the Dismal Swamp

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The hunted Negro lay;

He saw the fire of the midnight camp And heard at times a horse's tramp And a bloodhound's distant bay.

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