"Or has that hateful grocer, The slave! been here to-day? "Come, on thy brother's bosom Oh, John, 'tis not the grocer For his account; although How ever he is to be paid, ""Tis not the tax-collector; They've seized our old paternal clock, "Nor that Augustus Howard, Whom I despise almost, But the soot's come down the chimney, John, And fairly spoiled the roast! BON GUALTIER. LIBERTY AND SLAVERY. DISGUISE thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery! still thou art a bitter draught; and though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. It is thou, Liberty! thrice > sweet and gracious goddess, whom all in public or in private worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till nature herself shall change: no tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron. With thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious heaven! grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion, and shower down thy mitres, if it seem good unto thy Divine Providence, upon those heads which are aching for them. Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close by my table, and, leaning my head upon my hand, began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination. I was going to begin with the millions of my fellowcreatures born to no inheritance but slavery; but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it nearer me, and that the multitude of sad groups in it did but distract me -I took a single captive, and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture. I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it is which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish in thirty years the western breeze had not once fanned his blood-he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time-nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice. His children But here my heart began to bleed-and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait. He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the farthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed; a little calendar of small sticks was laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there. He had one of these little sticks in his hand, and with a rusty nail was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it downshook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle. He gave a deep sigh-I saw the iron enter into his soul-I burst into tears I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn. STERNE. THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND. "Look now abroad! Another race has filled Those populous borders-wide the wood recedes, THE breaking waves dash'd high Their giant branches toss'd; BRYANT. And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moor'd their bark Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear; They shook the depths of the desert gloom Amidst the storm they sang And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free! The ocean eagle soar'd From his nest by the wide wave's foam; And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd— This was their welcome home! There were men with hoary hair Why had they come to wither there, There was a woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar ? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?— Aye-call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod; They've left unstain'd what there they found Freedom to worship God. MRS. HEMANS. NEVER HOLD MALICE. OH! never "hold malice;" it poisons our life, |