THE FUGITIVE SLAVE'S APOSTROPHE TO NIAGARA.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

Hail to thy roaring flood,

Eternal torrent! dark Niagara, hail!

How bounds my boiling blood,

As thy loud voice comes thundering on the gale,
And the tumultuous waves thy dark-brown rocks assail.

Fierce is thy thunder-shock,

As the wild waters in their madness leap

From the eternal rock,

Plunging and raging, with impetuous sweep,

Till on the lake's calm breast thy boiling billows sleep.
So terrible and strong,

Whirl maddening passions in the bondman's breast,
Trampled and scarred by Wrong,

Ere the tired spirit finds its hallowed rest,

In Freedom's stormless home, and glorious sunlight blessed.
Roll and roar on, wild river!
Man's fetters cannot bind thy billows free,
Chainless and strong forever;

As thou hast been, thy leaping flood shall be,
Guarding, with watery wall, the land of liberty.

Glory to God on high!

Free as thy tide are my unshackled limbs ;
And here, unawed, will I

Join the wild chorus thy mad torrent hymns,
Stirring the pictured mist that o'er thy bosom swims.

Far from the southern plains,

I've traced my pathway, through the sunless wild,
Spurning the hated chains

That on my heel clanked heavy, from a child,
Binding to earth the soul, degraded and defiled.

On, by the beacon led,

That burns, unerring, in the northern sky,

O'er the lone fields I fled,

To where thy thunder lifts its voice on high,

And to the bondman tells the land of freedom nigh.

Here, by thy foaming surge,

Back on the hated land where I was born,

Land of the chain and scourge,

I pour the fires of unrelenting scorn,

And hatred that shall burn, till life's last ray is gone.

"Home of the true and brave,"

Where BASTARD FREEDOM broods her mongrel horde, And on the imbruted slave

Plants the red heel, and with the life-blood poured, Stains the fell altars, where her horrid name's adored.

It gave me but the chain,

The scourge, and task, and bondman's life of woe,
And ruthless torn in twain

The holiest ties that bind us here below,

Hearts that in woven beat with one united flow.

Nor thus to me alone, –

But fettered millions lift their arms on high,
And shriek, and wail, and groan,
To Heaven ascending, in one fearful cry,
Bid the red bolts of wrath in hissing vengeance fly.

And yet our God shall turn,

And on this land his fiery volleys pour,
Till his fierce wrath shall burn

From far Astoria, to her eastern shore,

And from her Sable cape, to where thy waters roar.

Joy to the bondmen then,

When his right arm is laid for Justice bare,
And loud from every glen

And mountain, lit by one funereal glare,
Ascends the tyrant's wail upon the troubled air.

Then shall thy torrent be

Their strong munition, and its bounding flood
A guard, to them that flee

From the Avenger of the Negro's blood;

Where blackness shrouds the land, where erst her glory stood.

Over thy rugged brow

Changeless and bright, the bow of promise bends,
Making the dark mist glow,

As Hope the clouds of Sorrow, when she lends

To Earth the joyous light which from her glance descends.

Eternal Priestess, thine

Is the pure baptism of the chainless free ;
Cool on this brow of mine

Thy holy drops descend, as broad to me
Unroll the temple-gates of meek-eyed Liberty !

Let the fell tyrant rage;

Into thy arms my sinewy form I fling,

And though his keel may wage

Mad warfare with thy billows, buffeting

The roaring floods with might, thou'lt guard me from his sting.

He may not cross thy tide,

With the strong fetters of a tyrant's power;

Thy waves in foaming pride

The shrieking wretch in madness would devour,

And clap their hands, and shout the bondman's triumph hour.

O that the Negro's God

Would give to dust this mortal part once more,
That o'er thy awful flood,

Swathed in the cloud-wreath dim, my soul might soar,
Exulting in the sound of thy eternal roar.

Loud with thy thunder tone

My voice shall blend, and when this land shall rock
With its last earthquake groan,

My shout the tyrant's dying shriek should mock,
And chant the victor-hymn to Ruin's rending shock.

November 1, 1841.

E. D. H.

PLEA FOR PEACE.

BY WILLIAM W. STORY.

"Blessed are the peace-makers, for they shall be called the children of God."
Rouse ye, noble hearts and fearless!
Gather Christians near and far!
Hear ye not Hell's watchword sounding?
Hear ye not the din of war?
Rouse ye, for your voice is needed!
Trust not in a weak repose!
Truth and Justice are invaded!
Rouse ye up to meet their foes!

Murder, in the open noonday,
Underneath war's bloody cloak,
Stalks abroad and calls her hirelings
To the angry battle's smoke,
And from many a Christian pulpit
Pious preachers lift above
Prayers unto the God of battles, -
Not unto the God of love.

In our streets the fifes are playing,
Drums are beating for recruits,

For a lustful law of conquest,

Only worthy human brutes;

And there are who call it glory

Through a battle's crime to wade,

And who deem that blood and carnage
Are a Christian's lawful trade.

Is it by a Christian people,

Is it in a Christian land,
That such prayers as these are lifted,
Such unholy deeds are planned?

In this age of boasted Freedom
Can this wretched truth be told,

Our Religion is a pretence,

We have only faith in Gold?

Is it to repel invasion ?

Is it then for Freedom's cause We must do man's saddest duty,

To defend our homes and laws?
No, by heaven! a baser motive
Never prompted man to war,
Than the mean and wicked objects
We are called to battle for.

Oh! my country, how degraded
Is thy high estate of yore!
How hath Freedom's aureole faded,
That thy young fair forehead wore!
Thou wert then a star of morning,
Whither nations turned their eyes,
And the burning hopes of millions
Hailed the splendor of thy rise!

Ah! that thou should'st break thy pledges,
Dip thy hands in sin and shame,

Be a coward and apostate,

Falling from thy lofty aim,

Treading on through blood to conquest,

Treacherous, cruel, and unjust,

Stealing from a weaker brother

With a base unholy lust.

Shame! that thou should'st fight the battles

Of a coward and a thief,

That three million human chattels

Vainly ask a just relief!

If there be a God in heaven,
Justice in the end shall win;
Thou shalt feel a retribution,
Deep and fearful as thy sin.

Mercy shall not always suffer,
Nor the law be broke in vain
That ordains, that he who giveth
Shall receive the like again,