"All men are equal in His sight,
He cares for prince and peasant, too.
What matters color, black or white?
The eye
of God can look men through!

"This girl was born and bred a slave,

Down South, where bondage holds the sway.
Dreading a fate worse than the grave,
At early morn she ran away,

"Was hunted like a frightened hare,
Was run to earth, was caught and bound,
Tracked, like a wild beast to its lair,
By rifle shot and baying hound.

"She is not black, the faintest tinge

Of color trembles through her veins; She stands upon the outer fringe,

Yet she must bear the scourge and chains.

"Once more a captive she was sold,

And her new master feared that he Might lose the value for his gold

If his poor slave girl once got free,

"And so he told her she might go

Northward, where slaves are never found; For heavenly breezes gladly blow

Around this land, 'tis freedom's ground.

She came, a suppliant and a slave,

To beg for freedom at your hands,

'Tis yours to pity, yours to save,

And break the captive's burning bands!

Two thousand dollars, and she goes Into the world, a woman then, Rescued from slavery and its woes, No more a prey to cruel men.

"Need I say more? Remember Him Who suffered death for you, for me;

A captive, bound and crucified,
That we poor rebels might go free!

"Give what you can, withhold your hand,
And send the slave girl back again!
Publish your shame throughout the land,
She begged for freedom here, in vain!

66

'I do you wrong. You will not send

Back to her chains this suppliant slave!
Your hearts are true; I see your hands
Are stretched in mercy, strong to save!"

The pastor ceased; the mighty host
Swayed like an aspen in the wind,
Or, like a vessel tempest tost,

Breakers before, and storm behind!

Loud sobs were heard, and tears were shed,
And gold and notes were freely paid;

And ladies took their bracelets off

To save this quadroon captive maid.

And rings and jewels rich and rare,
In truth it was a sight to see,
Until the preacher said, "Enough!
The price is paid, the slave is free!"

Again the pastor's voice outrang:

66

Our feelings must have vent, and so

We'll rise and sing!" Ah, how they sang

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow!"

THE KNIGHT'S FALSE VOW.

Scene I.

WAS all in the leafy month o' June,

'Tw

When the wild white roses blow,

Sir Rupert rode out in the merrie greenwood; A-hawking he would goe.

Oh, black as the sloe were his laughing eyes,
His teeth they were like to pearls,
And his plumèd hat was saucily set
O'er his bonnie bright raven curls.

Sir Rupert he tires o' the sport full soon;
He has wandered in idlesse mood
Away from his careless train and gay,

To the cool, green heart o' the wood.
And he dreamily thinks 'twere pleasant to be
A simple forester bold,

And what a brave life was Robin Hood's
In the merrie days of old,

When he sees in his path a maiden fair
In simple country guise;

Her startled eyes are soft as the fawn's,
And blue as the summer skies.

The rose and the lily softly blend

In her dainty cheek so fair,

And bonnie to see are her cherry lips
And ripple o' golden hair.

"Now where are you going, my pretty maid? Now what is your name, I pray?

Are you queen o' the fairies or woodland sprite?" Sir Rupert he questioned gay.

"No queen o' the fairies am I, sir knight,

No spirit nor woodland fay,

But only a simple forester's child,

And my name is Mabel May."

"Hast ever a sweetheart, Mabel fair?
Ah, you blush and shake your head.
Why, where are the rustics' hearts and eyes?"
Sir Rupert he laughingly said.

"Let me be your sweetheart, Mabel May!
'Twere pleasant, I trow, for both;
One dainty kiss from these rosy lips

Be the pledge of our plighted troth."

'Nay, touch me not, sir knight!" she said; "Nay, touch me not, I pray!

Our Lady forbid that a simple maid

Should trifle with gallants gay.

Go back to your true love, Mistress Grace,
Your high-born sweetheart and dear;
My kisses I keep for homelier lips

Than those of Rupert de Vere!"

Sir Rupert bit his lip and frowned:

Grace Hawkwood is naught to me;

Though I walk and whisper with her at times, 'Tis only in courtesie.

Love levels all ranks, sweet Mabel May,

Love that is tender and true;

And if ever I marry a maid in my life
It shall be only you.

"Then wear this ring for your own sweet sake, And give me a rose for mine;

The wild white rose you have in your hand,

66

For a lover's token and sign! "

Nay, keep your ring, Sir Rupert," she said; "Such tokens are not for me,

But gin you care for a wild white rose,

Here is one I will give to thee.

"But 'twill fade ere the summer day be gone, And you'll toss it idly away,

And with it the thought of the careless words You spoke to Mabel May!"

"Not so, not so," Sir Rupert he cries;

66

Though our race be Red-Rose men,

I'll wear your white rose in my hat, dear heart, Till we two meet again!"

He mounts his steed, and his hand he waves

To that simple maiden dear.

Ah, Mabel May, 'twas a luckless day
You met with Rupert de Vere.

The light and joy of her father's heart,

Her mother's darling and stay, Never was sweeter or daintier lass Than bonnie Mabel May.

But why is Mabel so pale of late?
Why so silent and wistful grown?
She carols no longer about the place,
But sitteth brooding alone.

Ever she thinks of a gay young knight,
The gallant Rupert de Vere,

Who's won her at last to hear his vows
And plight him her troth so dear.

For Rupert has pledged his knightly oath:
"My father is old and gray,

And when he has passed to his rest, dear heart,
There'll be none to say me nay.
And, Mabel May, gin I play you false,
Be ruin and death my dole.
If ever I marry a maid but you,
May I perish body and soul!

"But keep our secret awhile, sweetheart,
From every eye and ear,

Or my father will part you, Mabel mine,
From your own true lover dear."
And Mabel she keeps the secret well;
She thinks it were death to part;

For she loves him with all the passionate love
Of her fresh young innocent heart.

They meet by stealth in the summer woods
Under the sun-touched boughs

And linger oft in the twilight sweet
To whisper their tender vows.
And ever she longs for the happy time
When her parents proud shall hear

How Mabel May is to be the wife
Of the gallant Rupert de Vere.

The summer days with their radiant tints
Have faded and paled away;