Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE WHITE SLAVES; 1860, by EDNA DEAN PROCTOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE WHITE SLAVES; 1860, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The household of a roman, in rome's luxurious time
Last Line: Let every soul cry, 'liberty!' and 'liberty for all!'
Alternate Author Name(s): Dean
Subject(s): American Civil War; Freedom; Household Employees; Rome, Italy; Slavery; U.s. - History; Liberty; Servants; Domestics; Maids; Serfs


THE household of a Roman, in Rome's luxurious time,
Was filled with slaves in waiting from every conquered clime.
There were dreamy-eyed Egyptians, born where the lotus blows,
And Syrians won from Lebanon, fair as its sunset glows,
And dancing-girls from Cadiz to while the hours with song,
And dark Numidian beauties, the bronzes of the throng,
And light-haired Scythians that pined beneath his palace dome,
And stately Carthaginian maids who would not smile in Rome!
These were their master's chattels, and humbly watched his ways,
And kept his house, and swelled his train, and graced his festal days;
But should the princely Roman forget his high disdain,
And love the maid of Carthage or the singing-girl of Spain,
And did she bear him children, wait till his death should be,
And she and they, by Roman Law, were made forever free.

Alas! our later lordlings this partial justice scorn;
Their hapless children find a night that never knows a morn!
Slaves while their sire is living, and slaves when he is dead;
No law denies the market the proud Caucasian head;
But, hurried to the auction, the youth and maid are sold
To save the lands for legal heirs and fill their palms with gold;
And the ampler is the forehead and the clearer is the skin,
The sharper grows the contest and the louder swells the din.
In Rome the sire's patrician blood release and honor gave —
With us it only firmer clasps the fetters of the slave.

And evermore they cry to us in yearning and despair,
To open Freedom's blessed gate and let them breathe its air!
The crescent moon has hardly filled since a fair child of nine,
Her brow just tinted by the land where warmer sunbeams shine,
With her small mouth all tremulous, and eyelids wet with tears,
And cheek now crimson and now pale with changing hopes and fears,
Stood by the church's altar — 'tis there such prayers belong —
And asked her life and womanhood of the great, pitying throng.
Right largely did they answer, and listening angels bore,
Back to our Lord in heaven one burning story more. ...

Up the volcano's sloping sides the oak and chestnut climb,
And vineyards smile and orchards wave as floats the vesper chime.
'Tis just before the thunder-burst, but the wide heaven is still
As when an Indian-summer noon lies sleeping on the hill;
A roar — a crash — a fiery hell shot through the quivering sky,
And oak and vine and orchard bloom in blackened ruin lie! —
Beneath us a volcano heaves of more portentous name,
And millions, waiting wearily, in silence feed its flame;
No smoke rolls from the crater, nor hot winds round it blow,
But, deep within its throbbing heart, the fires are all aglow;
Woe to the land that circles it when the wild moment falls,
And the long-smothered fury bursts from out its prison walls!

Now let us wake from sleep and ease before the fatal day,
Nor dream such grief and wrong can die in voiceless calm away;
For surely as the mountain stream leaps down to find the sea,
This high-born race, through love or hate, must hasten to be free.
Oh, louder, grander, till the words like trumpet-charges call,
Let every soul cry, 'Liberty!' and 'Liberty for all!'





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