Thank God for toil! nor fear the face That blight which mars all outward grace, peace within. And dims the light of 39 MARY HOWITT. CONSTANT LOVE. Nay, tell me not, my dearest, That time has dimm'd thine eye; Say not thy cheek is faded, By sorrows, cares, and fears; I too am something older, If they are what hearts should be. As years have o'er me past; Though morning's early splendour The rich harvest of the year. BERNARD BARTON. THE LAND OF SLAVES. And he that stealeth a man, and selleth him, or if he be found in his hand, he shall surely be put to death.-EXODUS xxi., 16. Tell me where the star-gemm❜d banner floats upon the western breeze, Where the eagle from his eyrie looks on both earth's mighty seas, Where the giant Mississippi to the deep its tribute pours, Where, untir'd, unceasing ever, great Niagara's thunder roars, Where on fertile plains unmeasured, bright the golden harvest waves Tell me this, and I will tell you where there is a "land of slaves!" There the white man forges fetters for his dark-skinned brother's hand, There he hunts him with the blood-hound, sears him with the burning brand; There the wife, torn from her husband, bartered is for glittering gold, And the mother from her children into distant bondage sold! There no hope for millions cometh till they slumber in the grave; There, accursed by his traffic, e'en "the white man is a slave!" True, his limbs are free, unshackled, but the great and deathless MIND That should travel with the lightning, soars unfettered as the wind; Touched by slavery's blighting finger, blackened by its burning heat, Prostrate bows before the idol, lowly crouching at its feet: In alternate links combining, prejudice and pride can roll As it were a chain of iron firmly round the immortal soul! Ho! Columbia! Is the spirit of thy Pilgrim Fathers fled? Say, are Truth and Justice buried with thy great and noble dead? Could the heavy clank of fetters rouse those heroes from the grave, Would THEY breathe the air polluted by the presence of a slave? No! their eager hands outstretching, down the manacles would fall, And the sun shine on a country where the men were FREEMEN ALL. Oh! how are the mighty fallen from the heights they climb'd of yore! Loudly boasting still of Freedom, they are Freedoms's sons no more! One*, the pride of Massachusetts, has eclipsed a life-won fame, And the dark cloud of dishonour rests upon his wellknown name. Aye, and in the Empire City, mobs the freeman's voice can drown, While "the powers that be" stand idle, quailed beneath a ruffian's frown. And, oh! shame upon thee, city! there hath noble Douglass stood, With the Christian's holy patience and a hero's fortitude, While the heavy blows descending fell upon his manly form, Firm, erect, unyielding ever, as an oak amidst the storm; Empire City! thy dominion none will envy, none will crave, Thou, not Douglass, art degraded; thou to Slavery art a Slave. Oh! Columbia, I would warn thee,-rush not blindly on thy fate; GOD is just, and though long-suffering, not FOR EVER will HE wait. *Daniel Webster. |