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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, distant brawl of mountain brook.
Brief was the silence. Once again
Pealed to the skies that frantic yell—
Glowed 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;
