XI.

She would not move him otherwise, Although her heart was sad and sore. That which was venal in his eyes To her a lovely aspect wore,

And helped to weave the thousand ties Which bound her to her youth, and all The loves that she had left behind When, from her father's stately hall,

She came, her Northern home to find, With him who held her heart in thrall. In the dark pictures which he drew Of instituted shame and wrong,

She saw no figures that she knew, But a confused and hateful throng Of forms that in his fancy grew. Her father's rule, benign and mild,

Was all of slavery she had known; To her, an Afric was a child — A charge in other ages thrown On Christian honor, from the wild

Of savagery in which the Fates Had given him birth and dwelling-place — And so, descending through estates Of gentle vassalage, his race

Had come to those of later dates. Black hands her baby form had dressed; Black hands her blacker hair had curled; And she had found a dusky breast

The sweetest breast in all the world When she was thirsty or at rest. Her playmates, in her native bowers, Were Darkest children of the sun,

Who built the palaces and towers In which her reign, in love begun, Gave foretaste of love's later hours. Her memory was full of song

That she had learned in house and field, From those whose days seemed never long, And those who could not hold concealed The consciousness of shame and wrong.

A loving ear heard their complaints; A faithful tongue advised and warned; And grave corrections and restraints Were rendered by a heart adorned

By all the graces of the saints. There was no touch of memory's chords — No picture on her blooming wall,— Of life upon the sunny swards

They reproduced,— but brought recall Of happy slaves and gentle lords. And Philip charged a deadly sin Upon that beautiful domain,

Condemning all who dwelt therein, And branding with the awful stain Her friends, and all her dearest kin.