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The maiden died-and long, in after years,
FRIEND of the Afric! friend of the oppress’d !
Thou who wert cradled in a far-off clime,
hand defaced the page of time; Wert thou forth driven by their stern control,
An infant fugitive across the deep,
O’er all the Afric's causeless wrongs to weep,
And thou didst noply plead for them; thy heart,
Thrilling to all the holy sympathies,
Of commerce, with its human merchandize,
With the clear trumpet tones of God's own word, Rang through the guilty crowd, until no choice
Was left them but to tremble as they heard, Or bind with treble seal the feelings thou hadst stirr'd.
The ears of princes heard thee ; and the wise,
Touch'd by the mastery of thy earnestness, Bade their train'd spirits for a while to rise
From their profound research, and learn to bless Thy generous efforts, and with kindred zeal,
Led on by thee in duty's path to move; And kindled by thy sacred ardour, feel,
Like thee, that overflowing gush of love, That lifts man's selfish heart all narrow thoughts above.
The fetters of the slave are still unbroken;
But there will come, perchance, ere long, a day, When by their lips who wrong'd him, shall be spoken
The fiat of his freedom ;-and the ray
Of intellectual light shall radiance pour
On minds o'er which the gloom of darkness hung In treble folds impervious before,
By tyrants' hands around them rudely flung, To bind the chains that to both limb and spirit clung. Then shall their children learn to speak thy name,
With the full heart of gratitude, and know What thou hast done for them; and while they frame That history for their infants' ears, may grow
Perchance, in their own hearts, the likeness strong Of thy bright virtues ; so thou still shalt be, Even in thy sepulchre, their friend ;-and long
Shall those who love mankind, remember thee, Thou noble friend of those who pined in slavery.
I'LL to the dance! what boots it thus,
To brood o'er ills I cannot quell?
To-night we'll join in seeming glee;
For aye, that parting glance will be.
Would choke me with its smother'd flames !
Of that detested tyrant's claims?
That I have borne with them so long,
And crouch beneath a stranger's thong.
To part with all that gave my doom,
A ray of light amidst its gloom.
To bear the scourge, to wear the chain,
To toil with wearied heart and limb, Till death should end my lengthen'd pain,
Or worn old age my senses dim :This have I borne, and look'd to bear,
All bitter as such lot must be ; But drearier still my life must wear,
Beneath a stranger's tyranny. Alas! 't would be a happier lot,
If, ere to-morrow's doom shall come, My woes and wrongs were all forgot,
Amid the darkness of the tomb.
GLOOM. Do you
feel sorrowful? I sometimes do, When busy thought tells me the sufferings Of some in our south land. Their brows are not So fair as thine, by much, but yet they are Our sisters, for the mighty God hath given To them the boon of an immortal soul. Yet they are made through life's long years to toil, Scourge-driven like the brute ; and with the fine And delicate pulses of a human heart, Stirring to anguish in their bosoms, sold ! Ay, like the meanest household chattel, sold ! Vended from hand to hand, while with each wrench Their torn hearts bleed at every throbbing pore. Alas! how can I but feel sorrowful, To think
The shadows of the trees distinctly lie
know How beautiful thy ordinances are, Mock at thy holy will, and mar his soul With the dark stains of sin. Alas! that man, With thy pure law unveil'd before his eyes, Should bind the fetter on his brother's form, And smite him with the scourge, and bid hier pour His strength out on the earth, for no reward; And worse than this, wrench from his bleeding heart The dearest objects of his earthly love; And all that the oppressor's hoards may flow With Mammon's worthless treasures; meagre dust, Beside the priceless treasure of a soul ! Shall it be ever thus? Most Merciful ! Will man's hard heart be never touch'd with all The o'erflowings of thy love, and yield itself To gentle sympathies, till he shall learn The noble joy of pouring happiness Upon the heart of sorrow, and how sweet The pleasure is of shedding bliss abroad.
The tempest mounts the sky! with hurrying sweep,
the thunders :-Now its might is nigh! And faster peal and flame alternate crowd,
And the loosed winds sweep onward fearfully,
”T is terrible-yet most sublimely grand !
To the wrapt thoughts, and urges up their flight,
Yet soon to stoop again—the green earth lies
scourge man, And loose his brother's limbs from slavery's crushing chain.
Yet even now, amid the heavy clouds
O'er all the earth its holy light advance,