Self-Reproof.

Away all cords,

But that of love, which brings
Man, from his wanderings,
Back to the King of kings,
The Lord of lords!

Self-Reproof.

XXVI.

LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

WHEN injured Afric's captive claim,
Loads the sad gale with startling moan,
The frown of deep indignant blame
Bend not on Southern climes alone.

Her toil, and chain, and scalding tear,
Our daily board with luxuries deck,
And to dark slavery's yoke severe,

Our Fathers help'd to bow her neck.

If slumbering in the thoughtful breast,
Or justice or compassion dwell,

Call from their couch the hallowed guest,
The deed to prompt, the prayer to swell.

49.

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Hope and Faith.

Oh, lift the hand, and Peace shall bear
Her olive where the palm tree grows,
And torrid Afric's desert share

The fragrance of salvation's rose.

But if with Pilate's stoic eye,

We calmly wash when blood is spilt ; Or deem a cold, unpitying sigh, Absolves us from the stain of guilt;

Or if, like Jacob's recreant train,
Who traffick'd in a Brother's wo,
We hear the suppliant plead in vain,
Or mock his tears that wildly flow;

Will not the judgments of the skies,
Which threw a shield round Joseph sold,
Be roused by fetter'd Afric's cries,
And change to dross th' oppressor's gold!

Hope and Faith.

XXVII.

WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON.

YE who in bondage pine,
Shut out from light divine,

Hope and Faith.

Bereft of hope;

Whose limbs are worn with chains,
Whose tears bedew our plains,
Whose blood our glory stains,
In gloom who grope :

Shout! for the hour draws nigh,
That gives you liberty!

And from the dust,

So long your vile embrace,-
Uprising, take your place
Among earth's noblest race,
By right, the first!

The night-the long, long night
Of infamy and slight,

Shame and disgrace,

And slavery, worse than e'er

Rome's serfs were doomed to bear,
Bloody beyond compare―

Recedes apace!

Speed, speed the hour, O Lord!
Speak, and, at thy dread word,
Fetters shall fall

From every limb-the strong
No more the weak shall wrong,
But Liberty's sweet song

Be sung by all!

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The Followers of Christ.

XXVIII.

REGINALD HEBER.

THE Son of God goes forth to war,
A kingly crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams afar;
Who follows in his train?

Who best may drink his cup of woe,
Triumphant over pain;
Who patient bears his cross below-
He follows in his train!

Nor deem who to that bliss aspire
Must win their way through blood of fire;
The writhings of a wounded heart

Are fiercer than a foeman's dart.
Oft in life's stillest shade reclining,
In desolation, unrepining,

Meek souls there are who little deem
Their daily strife an angel's theme;
Or that the rod they take so calm,
Shall prove in heaven a martyr's palm.

Keble.

The Followers of Christ.

The martyr first, whose eagle eye
Could pierce beyond the grave;
He saw his master in the sky,
And called on him to save.

Like him, with pardon on his tongue,
In midst of mortal pain,

He prayed for them that did the wrong,-
Who follows in his train ?

A glorious band, the chosen few

On whom the spirit came,

Twelve valiant saints, their hope that knew,
And mocked the cross and flame.

They met the tyrant's brandished steel,

The lion's gory mane,

They bowed their necks, the death to feel,-
Who follows in their train?

A noble army, men and boys,
The matron, and the maid,
Around their Saviour's throne rejoice,

In robes of light arrayed.

They climbed the steep ascent of heaven,
Through peril, toil, and pain;

O God, to us may grace be given,

To follow in their train.

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