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ing away to the untrodden west. Slowly and sadly they climb the distant mountains, and read their doom in the setting sun. They are shrinking before the mighty tide which is pressing them away; they must soon hear the roar of the last wave, which will settle over them forever. Ages hence, the inquisitive white man, as he stands by some growing city, will ponder on the structure of their disturbed remains, and wonder to what manner of persons they belonged. They will live
only in the songs and chronicles of their exterminators. Let these be faithful to their rude virtues as men, and pay due tribute to their unhappy fate as a people.
THE NEGRO SLAVE.
THE broken heart which kindness never heals,
'Twas night,-his babes around him lay at rest, Their mother slumbered on their father's breast; A yell of murder rang around their bed;
They woke; their cottage blazed; the victims fled; Forth sprang the ambushed ruffians on their prey, They caught, they bound, they drove them far
The white man bought them at the mart of blood;
That rules his sinews, and enthrals his soul.
Thus spurned, degraded, trampled and oppressed,
THE SLAVE MOTHER'S PRAYER.
O Thou, who hear'st the feeblest
I bend a form, with ceaseless toil
And raise an eye that wets the soil,
I lift a hand that's only freed
But how, O God! does nature bleed
How wretched must that mother be,
I would not that my boy were spared
To drag the chains his birth prepared
Then, ere the nursling at my breast
O lay his little form at rest
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands ; The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
And looks the whole world in the face,
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
Like the sexton ringing the bell,
And children, coming home from school,
They love to see the flaming forge,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from the threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
He hears the parson pray and preach,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
He needs must think of her once more
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus, on its sounding anvil, shaped Each burning deed and thought.