[The following remarkable poem was sent to me from the South by a friend, who informs me that the author of it was a slave named Mingo, a man of wonderful talents and on that [?] oppressed by his master. While in the slave prison, he penciled this…
Sweet little flower, thy bloom is fled,
Thy tender leaves are pale and dead,
And scatter'd, (once so rosy red,)
O'er the cold tomb.
Around thee now in vain may beam The summer's ray, or winter's gleam; No sun can pierce the slumberer's dream,
In…
How sweet the pensive hour of even,
When Nature sinking to repose,
Robed in the loveliest dies of Heaven,
Around her glowing shadow throws.
Yon Golden cloud, arrayed in beauty,
So richly tinged with every hue,
What artist's skill can ever…
