Classic Poem

These creatures of the languid Orient,
  Rare pearls of caste, in their voluptuous swoon
And gilded ease, by Eunuchs watched and pent,
  And doomed to hear the lute's perpetual tune,
Were passion's toys—to lust an ornament;
  But not such was our thrush-voiced Octoroon,—
The Southland beauty who was wont to hear
Faith's tender secrets whispered in her ear.

19

“An honest man's the noblest work of”—No!
  That threadbare old mistake I'll not repeat.
A lovely woman—do you not think so?—
  Is God's best work. That she is man's helpmeet,
The Bible says, and I will let it go;
  And yet she crowns and makes his life complete.
Who would not shrive himself in her dear face,
And find his sinless Heaven in her embrace!

20

Young Maury loved his slave—she was his own;
  A gift, for all he questioned, from the skies.
No other fortune had he ever known,
  Like that which sparkled in her wild blue eyes.
Her seal-brown locks and cheeks like roses blown,
  Were wealth to him that e'en the gods might prize.
And when her slender waist to him he drew,
The sum of every earthly bliss he knew.

21

They had grown up together,—he and she—
  A world unto themselves. All else was bare,—
A desert to them and an unknown sea.
  Their lives were like the birds' lives—free and fair,
And flowed together like a melody.
  They could not live apart, Ah! silly pair!
But since she was his slave, what need to say,
A swarm of troubles soon beset their way?

22

Just in the dawn of blushing womanhood;
  Her swan-neck glimpsed through shocks of wavy hair;
A hint of olives in her gentle blood,
  Suggesting passion in a rosy lair;
This shapely Venus of the cabins stood,
  In all but birth a princess, tall and fair;
And is it any wonder that this brave
And proud young master came to love his slave?