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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
away. The white man bought them at the mart of blood; In pestilential barks they crossed the flood. Then were the wretched ones asunder torn, To distant isles, to separate bondage borne ; Denied, though sought with tears, the sad relief That misery loves,--the fellowship of grief. The negro, spoiled of all that nature gave, The free-born man thus shrinks into a slave ; His passive limbs, to measured tasks confined, Obey the impulse of another mind; A silent, secret, terrible control, That rules his sinews, and enthrals his soul. Not for himself he wakes at morning light, Toils the long day, and seeks repose at night; His rest, his labor, pastime, strength, and health, Are only portions of a master's wealth. Thus spurned, degraded, trampled and oppressed, The negro pines, an exile, in the west, With nothing left of life but hated breath, And not a hope, except the hope in death, To fly forever from the Creole strand, And dwell a freeman in his father's land.
THE SLAVE MOTHER'S PRAYER.
O Thou, who hear’st the feeblest prayer,
The humblest heart dost see !
I pour my soul to Thee.
Consuming all the day ;
life wears away.
Until tomorrow's task ;
Upon the boon I ask !
- Behold that hapless one !
To shield her only son !
To curse his natal hour;
Beneath unfeeling power.
Shall feel the tyrant's rod,
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands ; The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
Are strong as iron bands.
His face is like the tan;
He earns whate'er he can,
For he owes not any man.
You can hear his bellows blow, You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat and slow, Like the sexton ringing the bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children, coming home from school,
Look in at the open door ;
And hear the bellows roar,
Like chaff from the threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
And he hears his daughter's voice
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise !
How in the grave she lies ;
The tears out of his eyes.
Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees it close;
Has earned a night's repose.
For the lesson thou hast taught !
Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus, on its sounding anvil, shaped Each burning deed and thought.