A TRUE BALLAD. A GLORIOUS land is this of ours, A land of liberty! Through all the wide earth's bounds you'll find None else so truly free! Go north or south, or east or west, And yet methinks it were but well, And when we boast that o'er our soil 'T were well if we could hide the blood, Yet still is ours a glorious land! It was a mournful mother, sat She sat within the prison walls, Amidst her infants three; The bars were strong, the bolts well drawn, And still the tears fell down her cheek, And when a footstep came, A shudder of convulsive fear Went o'er her quivering frame. It was not for the dungeon's chill, For though in prison cell she lay, T was that she wore a dusky brow, Until her human limbs and heart Sold with her babes-all, one by one, And not one faint hope left to cling Yet still is ours a glorious land! Her husband was a freeman good, He lived in Maryland ; Where now in bootless grief he wept He loved her when they both were young And when their prattling infants smiled, Upon his cottage floor, For them and her, with cheerful heart, His daily toil he bore. But woe for him, and woe for her! Her children all were slaves; Less grief their parents' hearts had borne, For still as one by one they grew Torn far away to distant scenes, Now all were wrench'd apart-there was And they might calmly sit them down For though our land is proudly free, There's none may dare to knit again, THY THUNDER PEALETH O'ER US. THY thunder pealeth o'er us, But 'tis not by thine anger, Those flashing bolts are hurl'd, To desolate and humble A proud and guilty world. Though awful in its grandeur The storm o'ermounts the sky, Behind its steps more radiantly Pour forth her corn and wine. But oh, there lieth brooding, In fearful portent spread! Though broad our frightful borders For we have sinn'd before thee, Across our brother's soul. But let not yet thine anger Consume our blood-stain'd sod; Extend a little longer Thy mercy, oh our God! And touch our flinty bosoms ALINE. How very beautiful The creatures of this earth can sometimes be! Aline was one of such; the summer rose The common air-the unfolding of a flower- In after years I look'd upon Aline. Her face was lovely yet, but wore not all Again, The bloom of its young freshness; and the light, Aline went forth Amidst her servants; and her voice arose Shrilly and harsh, and they shrunk back in dread From her stern eye. The keen and cruel scourge Was busy at her bidding; and the limbs Of woman bied before her, and the shriek Of childhood rose unheeded. Then came one, Whose traffic was in human forms; whose wealth That bless man's nature. For a price of gold, Of a fond mother's love, and from the arms With all her weeping babes-and she stood by- |