Which even fetters could not kill,-
The savage hope, to deal, ere long,
A vengeance bitterer than his wrong!

Hark to that cry!-long, loud, and shrill, From field and forest, rock and hill, Thrilling and horrible it rang,

Around, beneath, above;

The wild beast from his cavern sprang·
The wild bird from her grove !
Nor fear, nor joy, nor agony
Were mingled in that midnight cry;
But, like the lion's growl of wrath,
When falls that hunter in his path,
Whose barbed arrow, deeply set,
Is rankling in his bosom yet,
It told of hate, full, deep, and strong,
Of vengeance kindling out of wrong;
It was as if the crimes of years —

The unrequited toil-the tears-
The shame and hate, which liken well
Earth's garden to the nether hell,
Had found in Nature's self a tongue,
On which the gathered horror hung;
As if from cliff, and stream, and glen,
Burst, on the startled ears of men,
That voice which rises unto God,
Solemn and stern- the cry of blood!
It ceased and all was still once more,

Save ocean chafing on his shore,
The sighing of the wind between
The broad banana's leaves of green,
Or bough by restless plumage shook,
Or murmuring voice of mountain brook.

Brief was the silence. Once again

Pealed to the skies that frantic yellGlowed on the heavens a fiery stain, And flashes rose and fell;

And, painted on the blood-red sky,
Dark, naked arms were tossed on high;
And, round the white man's lordly hall,
Trode, fierce and free, the brute he made;
And those who crept along the wall,
And answered to his lightest call

With more than spaniel dread ·
The creatures of his lawless beck

Were trampling on his very neck!
And, on the night-air, wild and clear,
Rose woman's shriek of more than fear;
For bloodied arms were round her thrown,
And dark cheeks pressed against her own!

Then, injured Afric!- for the shame
Of thy own daughters, vengeance came
Full on the scornful hearts of those,
Who mocked thee in thy nameless woes,
And to thy hapless children gave
One choice pollution, or the grave!

Where then was he, whose fiery zeal
Had taught the trampled heart to feel,
Until despair itself grew strong,

And vengeance fed its torch from wrong?
Now when the thunder-bolt is speeding;
Now when oppression's heart is bleeding;

Now when the latent curse of Time

Is raining down in fire and bloodThat curse which, through long years of crime, Has gathered, drop by drop, its floodWhy strikes he not, the foremost one, Where murder's sternest deeds are done?

He stood the aged palms beneath,

That shadowed o'er his humble door, Listening, with half-suspended breath, To the wild sounds of fear and death Toussaint l'Ouverture !

What marvel that his heart beat high! The blow for freedom had been given; And blood had answered to the cry

Which earth sent up to Heaven! What marvel, that a fierce delight Smiled grimly o'er his brow of night, As groan, and shout, and bursting flame, Told where the midnight tempest came, With blood and fire along its van, And death behind!- he was a MAN!

Yes, dark-souled chieftain ! - if the light Of mild Religion's heavenly ray Unveiled not to thy mental sight

The lowlier and the purer way, In which the Holy Sufferer trod, Meekly amidst the sons of crime, That calm reliance upon God

For justice, in his own good time,That gentleness, to which belongs Forgiveness for its many wrongs, Even as the primal martyr, kneeling For mercy on the evil-dealing,

Let not the favored white man name Thy stern appeal, with words of blame. Has he not, with the light of heaven

Broadly around him, made the same? Yea, on his thousand war-fields striven,

And gloried in his ghastly shame ? Kneeling amidst his brother's blood, To offer mockery unto God,

As if the High and Holy One

Could smile on deeds of murder done!
As if a human sacrifice

Were purer in his Holy eyes,

Though offered up by Christian hands,

Than the foul rites of Pagan lands!

Sternly, amidst his household band,
His carbine grasped within his hand,
The white man stood, prepared and still,
Waiting the shock of maddened men,
Unchained, and fierce as tigers, when

The horn winds through their caverned hill. And one was weeping in his sight

The sweetest flower of all the isle,
The bride who seemed but yesternight
Love's fair embodied smile.

And, clinging to her trembling knee,
Looked up the form of infancy,
With tearful glance in either face,
The secret of its fear to trace.

stand, or die!" The white man's eye

His steady musket gleamed along,

As a tall Negro hastened nigh,

With fearless step and strong.

"What, ho, Toussaint!" A moment more,

His shadow crossed the lighted floor.

66

'Away," he shouted; "fly with me,

The white man's bark is on the sea;
Her sails must catch the seaward wind,
For sudden vengeance sweeps behind.
Our brethren from their graves have spoken,
The yoke is spurned the chain is broken;
On all the hills our fires are glowing-

Through all the vales red blood is flowing!
No more the mocking White shall rest
His foot upon the Negro's breast;
No more, at morn or eve, shall drip
The warm blood from the driver's whip;
Yet, though Toussaint has vengeance sworn
For all the wrongs his race have borne, -
Though for each drop of Negro blood
The white man's veins shall pour a flood;
Not all alone the sense of ill
Around his heart is lingering still,
Nor deeper can the white man feel

The generous warmth of grateful zeal.
Friends of the Negro fly with me
The path is open to the sea:
Away, for life!"— He spoke, and pressed
The young child to his manly breast,
As, headlong, through the cracking cane,
Down swept the dark insurgent train
Drunken and grim, with shout and yell
Howled through the dark, like sounds from hell!

Far out, in peace, the white man's sail
Swayed free before the sunrise gale.
Cloud-like that island hung afar,

Along the bright horizon's verge,
O'er which the curse of servile war

Rolled its red torrent, surge on surge. And he the Negro champion-where

In the fierce tumult, struggled he?
Go trace him by the fiery glare
Of dwellings in the midnight air-

The yells of triumph and despair ·

The streams that crimson to the sea!

Sleep calmly in thy dungeon-tomb,
Beneath Besançon's alien sky,

Dark Haytien!-for the time shall come,
Yea, even now is nigh

When, every where, thy name shall be
Redeemed from color's infamy ;

And men shall learn to speak of thee,
As one of earth's great spirits, born
In servitude, and nursed in scorn,
Casting aside the weary weight
And fetters of its low estate,

In that strong majesty of soul,

Which knows no color, tongue or clime Which still hath spurned the base control Of tyrants through all time!

Far other hands than mine may wreath

The laurel round thy brow of death,