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.

SPRAGUE.

THE NEGRO SLAVE.

The broken heart which kindness never heals,
The home-sick passion, this the negro feels,
When, toiling, fainting, in the land of canes,
His spirit wanders to his native plains.
His little, lonely dwelling there he sees,
Beneath the shade of his paternal trees,
The home of comfort; then before his eyes
The terrors of captivity arise.

- '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.

MONTGOMERY.

а.

THE SLAVE MOTHER'S PRAYER.

O Thou, who hear’st the feeblest prayer,

The humblest heart dost see !
Upon the chilly midnight air

I pour my soul to Thee.
I bend a form, with ceaseless toil

Consuming all the day ;
And raise an eye that wets the soil,
As
my

life wears away.
I lift a hand that's only freed

Until tomorrow's task ;
But how, O God ! does nature bleed

Upon the boon I ask !
How wretched must that mother be,

- Behold that hapless one !
Who begs an early grave of Thee,

To shield her only son !
I would not that my boy were spared

To curse his natal hour;
To drag the chains his birth prepared

Beneath unfeeling power.
Then, ere the nursling at my breast

Shall feel the tyrant's rod,
O lay his little form at rest
Beneath the quiet sod! Miss GOULD.

go

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree

The village smithy stands ; The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,

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 ;
They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from the threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,

And he hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise !
He needs must think of her once more

How in the grave she lies ;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

The tears out of his eyes.

Toiling-rejoicing—sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begun,

Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught !
Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus, on its sounding anvil, shaped Each burning deed and thought.

LONGFELLOW.