And peace is here; and hope and love Are round us as a mantle thrown, And unto Thee, supreme above,

The knee of prayer is bowed alone.

But O, for those this day can bring,
As unto us, no joyful thrill, -
For those who, under Freedom's wing,
Are bound in Slavery's fetters still :

For those to whom thy living word
Of light and love is never given,
For those whose ears have never heard
The promise and the hope of Heaven!

For broken heart and clouded mind,
Whereon no human mercies fall, -
O, be thy gracious love inclined,
Who, as a Father, pitiest all!

And grant, O Father! that the time

Of Earth's deliverance may be near, When every land and tongue and clime

The message of thy love shall hear,

When, smitten as with fire from heaven, The captive's chain shall sink in dust,

And to his fettered soul be given

The glorious freedom of the just !

LINES,

WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THE THIRD ANNIVERSARY OF BRITISH EMANCIPATION AT THE

BROADWAY TABERNACLE, N. Y., FIRST OF AUGUST,”

1837.

HOLY FATHER!— just and true

Are all thy works and words and ways,

And unto thee alone are due

Thanksgiving and eternal praise!

As children of thy gracious care,

We veil the eye we bend the knee,
With broken words of praise and prayer,
Father and God, we come to thee.

For thou hast heard, O God of Right,
The sighing of the island slave ;
And stretched for him the arm of might,
Not shortened that it could not save.

The laborer sits beneath his vine,

The shackled soul and hand are free,
Thanksgiving!— for the work is thine!
Praise ! — for the blessing is of thee!

And O, we feel thy presence here,

--

Thy awful arm in judgment bare!
Thine eye hath seen the bondman's tear, -
Thine ear hath heard the bondman's prayer.

Praise for the pride of man is low,

The counsels of the wise are naught,

The fountains of repentance flow;

What hath our God in mercy wrought?

Speed on thy work, Lord God of Hosts!
And when the bondman's chain is riven,
And swells from all our guilty coasts

The anthem of the free to Heaven,
O, not to those whom thou hast led,
As with thy cloud and fire before,
But unto thee, in fear and dread,
Be praise and glory evermore.

LINES,

WRITTEN FOR THE ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION OF THE FIRST OF AUGUST, AT MILTON, 1846.

A

FEW brief years have passed away

Since Britain drove her million slaves
Beneath the tropic's fiery ray :

God willed their freedom; and to-day
Life blooms above those island graves!

He spoke across the Carib Sea

We heard the clash of breaking chains,
And felt the heart-throb of the free,

The first, strong pulse of liberty

Which thrilled along the bondman's veins.

Though long delayed, and far, and slow,
The Briton's triumph shall be ours:

Wears slavery here a prouder brow
Than that which twelve short years ago

Scowled darkly from her island bowers?

Mighty alike for good or ill

With mother-land, we fully share

The Saxon strength, the nerve of steel,
The tireless energy of will,

The power to do, the pride to dare.

What she has done can we not do?

Our hour and men are both at hand; The blast which Freedom's angel blew O'er her green islands, echoes through Each valley of our forest land.

Hear it, old Europe! we have sworn
The death of slavery. When it falls,
Look to your vassals in their turn,
Your poor dumb millions, crushed and worn,
Your prisons and your palace walls!

Yet know that

O kingly mockers! - scoffing show
What deeds in Freedom's name we do;
every taunt ye throw
Across the waters, goads our slow
Progression towards the right and true.

Not always shall your outraged poor,
Appalled by democratic crime,
Grind as their fathers ground before,
The hour which sees our prison door
Swing wide shall be their triumph time.

On then, my brothers! every blow

Ye deal is felt the wide earth through; Whatever here uplifts the low

Or humbles Freedom's hateful foe,

Blesses the Old World through the New.

Take heart! The promised hour draws near,
I hear the downward beat of wings,
And Freedom's trumpet sounding clear:
"Joy to the people!— woe and fear
To new-world tyrants, old-world kings!"

THE FAREWELL

OF A VIRGINIA SLAVE MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTERS SOLD INTO SOUTHERN BONDAGE.

GONE, gone, - sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone.

Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings,
Where the noisome insect stings,
Where the fever demon strews

Poison with the falling dews,
Where the sickly sunbeams glare
Through the hot and misty air, -

Gone, gone,
-sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone, - sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
There no mother's eye is near them,
There no mother's ear can hear them;
Never, when the torturing lash
Seams their back with many a gash,
Shall a mother's kindness bless them,
Or a mother's arms caress them.