The Reveller stood in deep amaze Now flash'd his fiery eye; He muttered a curse-then shouted loud, "Intruder, thou shall die!" He struck-and the stranger's guise fell off, He stirred not again, till the stranger blew Then the Reveller fell at the Phantom's feet, In that broad and high ancestral hall, TO A WATERFOWL. BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, There is a Power, whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,The desert and illimitable air, Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He, who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, And his sword leap'd out, like a Baron's brave In the long way that I must tread alone, Of the times that were, of old. Will lead my steps aright. THE FAREWELL Of a Virginia Slave Mother to her Daughters, sold into Southern Bondage. BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. Gone, gone-sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, Gone, gone,-sold and gone, Gone, gone-sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone. Gone, gone-sold and gone, Gone, gone-sold and gone, Oh, when weary, sad, and slow, There no brother's voice shall greet them- Gone, gone-sold and gone, Gone, gone-sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, On their childhood's place of play— Gone, gone-sold and gone, Gone, gone-sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and loneToiling through the weary day, And at night the Spoiler's prey. Gone, gone-sold and gone, Gone, gone-sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone- Gone, gone-sold and gone, WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER. BY CAROLINE E. S. NORTON. We have been friends together, In sunshine and in shade, Shall a light word part us now? We have been sad together; We have wept with bitter tears The voices which are silent there Oh, what shall part us now? THE FEMALE MARTYR. BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. Mary G-, aged 18, a "SISTER OF CHARITY," died in one of our Atlantic cities, during the prevalence of the Indian Cholera, while in voluntary attendance upon the sick. "Bring out your dead!" the midnight street Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call; Glanced through the dark the coarse white sheet- What-only one !" The brutal hackman said, How sunk the inmost hearts of all, As roll'd that dead-cart slowly by, -With creaking wheel and harsh hoof-fall! To hear it and to die!— Onward it roll'd; while oft its driver stay'd, It paused beside the burial-place; "Toss in your load!"—and it was done.— They cast them, one by one- Nor flower, nor cross, nor hallow'd taper gave Yet, gentle sufferer!-there shall be, In every heart of kindly feeling, A rite as holy paid to thee As if beneath the convent-tree Thy sisterhood were kneeling, At vesper hours, like sorrowing angels, keeping For thou wast one in whom the light Of Heaven's own love was kindled well, Far more than words may tell : Where manly hearts were failing,-where The throngful street grew foul with death, O high soul'd martyr !-thou wast there, Inhaling from the loathsome air, Poison with every breath. Yet shrinking not from offices of dread We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives P. J. BAILEY. VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED. No. 18. POEMS ON SOME INCIDENTS OF ANTI-SLAVERY. TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES B. STORRS Was it right, While my unnumbered brethren toiled and bled, That I should dream away the entrusted hours On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart, With feelings all too delicate for use? COLERIDGE. The general history of any one radical reform is the history of all. There is, at first, the deep conviction of right, and devotedness to the truth whatever betide, opposed by the scorn, loathing, and hatred of the mass. Then comes open violence beating down, if possible, the firm endurance of men who have foreseen the peril and do not fear to brave it. Then is heard above the clamor the voices of some few whom the world calls noble, who yet by the world's love are not altogether corrupt. And then peal upon peal arise the shouts of victory after victory by those who, once dispised, are now going on conquering and to conquer. Then high names are given to martyrs; and men believing them to be God-sent, and therefore inimitable, sit down with folded arms while the roar, it may be, of a yet mightier combat is raging around them. Such was the case when Socrates drank the hemlock; when Jesus was the Word-made-flesh, and was nailed to the cross; when Luther rocked Catholicdom with its array of soulless mummeries and countless heresies, to its foundation; when George Fox shook priestdom in England sorely; and when Sharpe and Wilberforce and Clarkson pleaded for the rights against the powers of men, and gave to the world a most noble proof of Truth's might. And such too, is now the case when Anti-Slavery-that only democracy which our nation has-defying the triple alliance of Love of Power with Love of Gold and Hatred of Man, has kept to the breeze its banner these more than twenty years, bearing it up and down through church aisles and legislative halls, flapping it in the faces of drowsy wealth and rank, and, from beneath it, pouring out defiance and resolve upon the startled ear of oppression. In that warfare have been many incidents right worthy of the poet's song. And well have some of them been used. I have hastily thrown together such poems upon them as are at hand, with this eulogium-that never in any struggle did more Manly and Christian poetry gush up from the deep fountains of the soul. Late President of Western Reserve College. BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. "He fell a martyr to the interests of his colored brethren. For many months did that mighty man of God apply his dis. criminating and gigantic mind to the subject of Slavery and its remedy and, when his soul could no longer contain his holy indignation against the upholders and apologists of this unrighteous system, he gave veut to his aching heart, and poured forth his clear thoughts and holy feelings in such deep and soul-entrancing eloquence, that other men, whom he would fain in his humble modesty acknowledge his superiors, sat at his feet and looked up as children to a parent."—Cor. Thou martyr of the Lord! And the sinful lip reviles, When to our cup of trembling The added drop is given, And the long suspended thunder Falls terribly from Heaven,When a new and fearful freedom Is proffer'd of the Lord To the slow consuming Famine The Pestilence and Sword! When the refuges of Falsehood Shall be swept away in wrath, And the temple shall be shaken With its idol to the earth,Shall not thy words of warning Be all remember'd then? And thy now unheeded message Burn in the hearts of men? Oppression's hand may scatter For lying lips shall torture But, where the South-wind lingers Down Georgia's golden mines,- Where Mammon hath its alters Joy to thy spirit, brother! A thousand hearts are warm A thousand kindred bosoms Lo-the waking up of nations, From Slavery's fatal sleepThe murmur of a UniverseDeep calling unto Deep! Joy to thy spirit, brother! On every wind of Heaven The onward cheer and summons Of FEEEDOM'S SOUL is given! Glory to God for ever! Beyond the despot's will The soul of Freedom liveth Imperishable still. The words which thou hast utter'd Are of that soul a part, And the good seed thou hast scatter'd Is springing from the heart. In the evil days before us, And the trials yet to come In the shadow of the prison, Or the cruel martyrdom We will think of thee, O brother! SONG OF THE FREE. BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. "Living, I shall assert the right of FREE DISCUSSION; dying, I shall assert it; and, should I leave no other inberitance to my children, by the blessing of God I will leave them the inheritance of FREE PRINCIPLES, and the example of a manly and independent defence of them."-Daniel Webster, Pride of New England! Soul of our fathers! Shrink we all cravan-like, When the storm gathers? What though the tempest be Over us lowering, Where's the New Englander Shamefully cowering? Graves green and holy Around us are lying,— Free were the sleepers all, Living and dying! Back with the Southerner's Padlocks and scourges! Go-let him fetter down Ocean's free surges ! Go-let him silence Winds, clouds, and watersNever New England's own Free sons and daughters! Free as our rivers are Ocean-ward goingFree as the breezes are Over us blowing. Up to our altars, then, If we have whisper'd truth, Never, oh! never! |