The Morning Dream.

Twas in the glad season of spring,     Asleep at the dawn of the day,     I dreamd what I cannot but sing,     So pleasant it seemd as I lay.     I dreamd that, on ocean afloat,     Far hence to the westward I saild,     While the billows high lifted the boat,     And the fresh-blowing breeze never faild.     In the steerage a woman I saw,     Such at least was the form that she wore,     Whose beauty impressd me with awe,     Neer taught me by woman before.     She sat, and a shield at her side     Shed light, like a sun on the waves,     And smiling divinely, she cried     I go to make freemen of slaves.     Then, raising her voice to a strain     The sweetest that ear ever heard,     She sung of the slaves broken chain,     Wherever her glory appeard.     Some clouds, which had over us hung,     Fled, chased by her melody clear,     And methought while she liberty sung,     Twas liberty only to hear.     Thus swiftly dividing the flood,     To a slave-cultured island we came,     Where a demon, her enemy, stood     Oppression his terrible name.     In his hand, as the sign of his sway,     A scourge hung with lashes he bore,     And stood looking out for his prey     From Africas sorrowful shore.     But soon as, approaching the land,     That goddess-like woman he viewd,     The scourge he let fall from his hand,     With blood of his subjects imbrued.     I saw him both sicken and die,     And, the moment the monster expired,     Heard shouts, that ascended the sky,     From thousands with rapture inspired.     Awaking, how could I but muse     At what such a dream should betide?     But soon my ear caught the glad news,     Which served my weak thought for a guide;     That Britannia, renownd oer the waves     For the hatred she ever has shown     To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves,     Resolves to have none of her own.