Ah, yes! beneath the beams of brighter skies,
His home amidst his father's country lies;
There, with the partner of his soul, he shares
Love-mingled pleasures, love-divided cares;
There, as with nature's warmest, filial fire,
He soothes his blind, and feeds his helpless sire;
His children, sporting round his hut, behold
How they shall cherish him when he is old.
Thus lived the Negro in his native land,
Till Christian cruisers anchor'd on his strand;
'Twas night; his babes around him lay at rest,
Their mother slumber'd on their father's breast;
A yell of murder rang around their bed;

They woke; their cottage blazed; the victims fled;
Forth sprang the ambush'd 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 cross'd 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 same.

NIGHT.

Night is the time for rest;

How sweet, when labors close,

To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose,

Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head

Upon our own delightful bed!

Night is the time for dreams;

The gay romance of life,

When truth that is and truth that seems,

Blend in fantastic strife;

Ah! visions less beguiling far

Than waking dreams by daylight are!

Night is the time for toil; '

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil

Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, or heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep;

To wet with unseen tears

Those graves of memory, where sleep
The joys of other years;

Hopes that were angels in their birth,

But perish'd young, like things on earth!

Without any wish to make pedantic objections, we may be allowed to remark that this stanza is inconsistent with natural truth and a just economy of life. Day is the time for toil-night is more proper for repose; and, if spent in mental labor, in addition to other duties pursued during the day, must redound to the injury of health.

Night is the time to watch;
On ocean's dark expanse
To hail the Pleiades, or catch

The full moon's earliest glance,
That brings unto the homesick mind
All we have loved and left behind.

Night is the time for care;

Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of despair Come to our lonely tent;

Like Brutus, midst his slumbering host, Startled by Cæsar's stalwart ghost.

Night is the time to muse;

Then from the eye the soul

Takes flight, and, with expanding views,
Beyond the starry pole,

Descries, athwart the abyss of night,
The dawn of uncreated light.

Night is the time to pray;

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away;

So will his followers do;

Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And hold communion there with God.

Night is the time for death;

When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, From sin and suffering cease: Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends-such death be mine!

ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH.

Higher, higher will we climb,

Up to the mount of glory,

That our names may live through time
In our country's story;

Happy, when her welfare calls,
He who conquers, he who falls.

Deeper, deeper let us toil

In the mines of knowledge;

Nature's wealth and learning's spoil
Win from school and college;
Delve we there for richer genis

Than the stars of diadems.

Onward, onward may we press
Through the path of duty;
Virtue is true happiness,

Excellence true beauty.
Minds are of celestial birth;
Make we then a heaven of earth.

Closer, closer let us knit

Hearts and hands together,
Where our fireside comforts sit,
In the wildest weather;

Oh! they wander wide who roam,
For the joys of life, from home.

THE COMMON LOT.

Once, in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man: and who was he?
Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee.

Unknown the region of his birth,

The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perish'd from the earth,
This truth survives alone:

That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear,
Alternate triumph'd in his breast;
His bliss and wo-a smile, a tear!
Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

He suffer'd-but his pangs are o'er;
Enjoy'd-but his delights are fled;

Had friends-his friends are now no more;
And foes-his foes are dead.

He loved-but whom he loved the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:
Oh, she was fair! but naught could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

He saw whatever thou hast seen;
Encounter'd all that troubles thee;
He was whatever thou hast been;
He is what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons-day and night,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,
Erewhile his portion, life and light,

To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye

That once their shades and glory threw,

Have left in yonder silent sky

No vestige where they flew.

The annals of the human race,

Their ruins, since the world began,

Of him afford no other trace

Than this-there lived a man!

PRAYER.

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire
Utter'd or unexpress'd;
The motion of a hidden fire

That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burden of a sigh
The falling of a tear;

The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;

Prayer the sublimest strains that reach The Majesty on high.

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air;

His watchword at the gates of death:
He enters heaven by prayer.

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice
Returning from his ways;

While angels in their songs rejoice,
And say,
"Behold, he prays!"

The saints in prayer appear as one,
In word, and deed, and mind,
When with the Father and his Son
Their fellowship they find.

Nor prayer is made on earth alone;
The Holy Spirit pleads;

And Jesus, on the eternal throne,
For sinners intercedes.

O Thou, by whom we come to God,
The Life, the Truth, the way,
The path of prayer thyself hast trod:
Lord, teach us how to pray!

FRIEND AFTER FRIEND DEPARTS.

Friend after friend departs;

Who hath not lost a friend?

There is no union here of hearts

That finds not here an end:

Were this frail world our final rest,
Living or dying, none were blest.

Beyond this flight of time,-
Beyond the reign of death,-
There surely is some blessed clime
Where life is not a breath;
Nor life's affections transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upward and expire.

There is a world above
Where parting is unknown;
A long eternity of love,

Form'd for the good alone:
And faith beholds the dying, here,
Translated to that glorious sphere!

Thus star by star declines,
Till all are past away,

As morning high and higher shines,
To pure and perfect day;

Nor sink those stars in empty night,
But hide themselves in heaven's own light.

HUMILITY.

The bird that soars on highest wing
Builds on the ground her lowly nest;
And she that doth most sweetly sing
Sings in the shade when all things rest:
-In lark and nightingale we see
What honor hath humility.

When Mary chose "the better part,"

She meekly sat at Jesus' feet;

And Lydia's gently-open'd heart

Was made for God's own temple meet;

-Fairest and best adorn'd is she

Whose clothing is humility.

The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown

In deepest adoration bends;

The weight of glory bows him down

Then most when most his soul ascends;
-Nearest the throne itself must be

The footstool of humility.

THE SUPERIORITY OF POETRY OVER SCULPTURE AND PAINTING.

Let us bring-not into gladiatorial conflict, but into honorable competition, where neither can suffer disparagement-one of the masterpieces of ancient sculpture, and two stanzas from "Childe Harold," in which that very statue is turned into verse, which seems almost to make it visible :

THE DYING GLADIATOR.

"I see before me the Gladiator lie:

He leans upon his hand; his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony;
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low;
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now

The arena swims around him, he is gone,

Ere ceased the inhuman shout that hail'd the wretch who won,"