Classic Poem

The child's awe that I felt of Slavery,
When from our door they dragged the faithful cook,
I did not need to join a sect to see,
Nor have it preached at me from any book;
And when the freedmen wail the horrid laws
And massacre is slavery's aftermath,
I only feel what the volcano was
From these red lavas of its senile wrath.
He who was absolute must sometimes kill,
His Berber sons arrest the mails of light,
His nation float his soon forgotten bill,
Its flag and trade be halted for his spite.
When absolution tempts me with its fruit,
I think that Slavery was absolute.