Repose for the Weary, by J. R.
----
There is a spot within the Western isle,
Where all is peace and freedom, and the Slave
In that small lone enclosure finds a home.
Its sods are paved with monuments, which tell
The name of him whose bondage here is cancelled,
And the birth-day of the free. Here is kept
The charter of the injured Indian's rights,
Which none dare violate; and he whose name
Midst freedom's archives here is registered,
A title to his liberty obtains,
The proud oppressor never questions more.
The sugar-cane may never flourish here,
The soil of this pure sanctuary to taint,
And mark the Negro's curse; but rosemary
And thyme, and here and there a violet,
Adorn each narrow dwelling. Sweetly sleeps
The free inhabitant; nor hears he more
The voice of the task-master or the chain.
On this retreat the worm alone intrudes;
Yet his still inroads cannot break the sleep
Of the oppressed sweetly slumbering there.
From earthly wrong here all may refuge find,
And undisturbed repose, where softly lie,
By dreams unstartled, on one balmy couch,
And by the same light canopy o'ershadowed,
The proud oppressor with his toil-worn slave.
And though with penury and scorn o'ercome,
Each in his turn the ransom pays in full.
But yet that claim of purchase to receive,
The oppressor grudges, sickening at the sight
Of that which buys it, e'en as though the touch
Would breed corruption; -- for its price is death.
J. R.