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When starting through my timid heart, the thought that thou
couldst die, Shot, even amidst a mother's bliss, a pang of
My boy! my boy! Oh cling not thus around me in thy grief, Thy mother's arm, thy mother's love, can yield thee no relief; The tiger's bloody jaw hath not a gripe more fierce and fell Than that which tears thee from my arms—thou who wert
loved so well!
I live berest of thee? Thy smile was all that flung A
ray of gladness ’midst the gloom, forever round me hung: How may a mother's heart endure to think upon thy fate, Thou doom'd to misery and chains !-so young and desolate !
Farewell! farewell !—They tear thee hence !-and yet my
heart beats on; How can it bear the weight of life, when thou art from me gone? Mine own! mine own! Yet cruel hands have barter'd thee for
gold, And torn thee, with a ruthless grasp, forever from my hold !
OUR Father, God! behold us raise
Our hopes, our thoughts, our hearts, to thee;
But humbly bow the suppliant knee.
For we have sinn'd before thy face,
Have seen unmoved our brothers' woe,
Deep furrows in their burning flow.
We knew that on his limbs were bound
The fetters man should never wear;
And grief, and anguish, and despair.
We knew—but in our selfish hearts,
There waked no throb of answering pain; Yet, now, at last, the tear-drop starts,
We weep the oppress'd one's galling chain. We weep, repenting of the pride
That chill'd our narrow souls so long ; Oh, Father! may that suppliant tide
Efface our deep and cruel wrong.
MOTHER, when christmas comes once more,
I do not wish that you
As you were used to do:
Is pleasant to me yet,
With their fresh stores outset.
But I have learn’d, dear mother,
That the poor and wretched slave
grave. And when he faints with weariness
Beneath the torrid sun,
Until the day is done.
On Judea's plains afar,
'Neath Bethlehem's wondrous star, They sung of glory to our God,
ce and good will to men," For Christ, the Saviour of the world,
Was born amidst them then.
And is it for His glory, men
Are made to toil,
Upon another's soil ?
That they are taught not of his law,
To know his holy will,
And loves the righteous still ?
And is it peace and love to men,
To bind them with the chain, And sell them like the beasts that feed
Upon the grassy plain?
To tear their flesh with scourgings rude,
And from the aching heart, The ties to which it fondliest clings,
For evermore to part ?
And 't is because of all this sin, my mother,
That I shun
Such wickedness is done.
If men to men will be unjust, if slavery must be, Mother, the chain must not be worn; the scourge
be plied for me.
MY COTTAGE HOME. My cottage home! my cottage home!
How beautiful it lies,
Beneath our bright blue skies.
Nor deem that it was fair ;-
For those I love are there.
In summer there are wild flowers round,
And the tall forest weaves A drapery of light and shade,
With its green and pleasant leaves ; And thousand birds are pouring out,
To the gay and singing breeze, From the wild joys of their leaping hearts,
A thousand melodies.
The shadowing of an oak's green boughs
Is flung the low roof o'er;
About the open door.
Waves in its yellow light;
Bend gracefully and slight.
But were it thousand times more fair
If o'er the fertile soil Oppression shook her manacles,
And scourged the slave to toilTo me the rudest desert wild
Were better for my home, So never on its arid breeze
The voice of wrong might come.
But round my home, my cottage home,
The tyrant never treads,
No slave his sad tear sheds.
In other scenes to know
And of the oppress'd ones' woe-
Is wafted on the air, Telling of fearful injuries,
And anguish and despair ;
I might, perchance, almost forget
The guilt and wrongs of earth, And deem that brightness gleam'd, alone,
Around the household hearth.
But woe for man's dark cruelty !
His selfishness and pride!
With human life-blood dyed.
He lifts his voice on high,
His crushing fetters lie.
THE CONSCRIPT'S FAREWELL.
FAREWELL, father ; I had hoped that I should be In thine age a staff for thee ; But when years have mark'd thy brow, When thy step is weak and slow, When thy hair is thin and white, And thine eye hath lost its light, I shall never seek thy side, And thy faltering footsteps guide. Where my country's banners fly Proudly 'neath a distant s To the battle forth I speed, There to fight and there to bleed; Not because the foeman's lance Glitters in the vales of France; Not because a stranger's mirth Rises round my father's hearth; Not at glory's trumpet call, Nor in freedom's cause to fall; But because ambitious power Tears me from my peaceful bower. Yet amidst the battle strife, In the closing hours of life,