Heavy and stern are the bolts which burn In the right hand of Jehovah; To smite the strong red arm of wrong, And dash his temples over; Then on amain to rend the chain, Ere bursts the vallied thunder; Right onward speed till the slave is freed-- His manacles torn asunder.

E.D.H.

THE QUADROON MAIDEN.

Words by Longfellow. Theme from the Indian Maid.

[Music]

The Slaver in the broad lagoon, Lay moored with idle sail; He waited for the rising moon, And for the evening gale.

The Planter under his roof of thatch, Smoked thoughtfully and slow; The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, He seemed in haste to go.

He said, "My ship at anchor rides In yonder broad lagoon; I only wait the evening tides, And the rising of the moon."

Before them, with her face upraised, In timid att.i.tude, Like one half curious, half amazed, A Quadroon maiden stood.

And on her lips there played a smile As holy, meek, and faint, As lights, in some cathedral aisle, The features of a saint.

"The soil is barren, the farm is old,"

The thoughtful Planter said, Then looked upon the Slaver's gold, And then upon the maid.

His heart within him was at strife, With such accursed gains; For he knew whose pa.s.sions gave her life, Whose blood ran in her veins.

But the voice of nature was too weak: He took the glittering gold!

Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek, Her hands as icy cold.

The Slaver led her from the door, He led her by the hand, To be his slave and paramour In a far and distant land.

Domestic Bliss.

BY REV. JAMES GREGG.

Domestic bliss; thou fairest flower That erst in Eden grew, Dear relic of the happy bower, Our first grand parents knew!

We hail thee in the rugged soil Of this waste wilderness, To cheer our way and cheat our toil, With gleams of happiness.

In thy mild light we travel on, And smile at toil and pain; And think no more of Eden gone, For Eden won again.

Such, Emily, the bliss, the joy By Heaven bestowed on you; A husband kind, a lovely boy, A father fond and true.

Religion adds her cheering beams, And sanctifies these ties; And sheds o'er all the brighter gleams, She borrows from the skies.

But ah! reflect; are _all_ thus blest?

Hath home such charms for _all_?

Can such delights as these invest Foul slavery's wretched thrall?

Can those be happy in these ties Who wear her galling chain?

Or taste the blessed charities That in the household reign?

Can those be blest, whose hope, whose life, Hang on a tyrant's nod; To whom nor husband, child, nor wife Are known--yea, scarcely G.o.d?

Whose ties may all be rudely riven, At avarice' fell behest; Whose only hope of _home_ is heaven, The grave their only rest.

Oh! think of those, the poor, th' oppressed, In your full hour of bliss; Nor e'er from prayer and effort rest, While earth bears woe like this.

O PITY THE SLAVE MOTHER.

Words from the Liberator. Air, Araby's Daughter.

[Music]

I pity the slave mother, careworn and weary, Who sighs as she presses her babe to her breast; I lament her sad fate, all so hopeless and dreary, I lament for her woes, and her wrongs unredressed.

O who can imagine her heart's deep emotion, As she thinks of her children about to be sold; You may picture the bounds of the rock-girdled ocean, But the grief of that mother can never be known.

The mildew of slavery has blighted each blossom, That ever has bloomed in her pathway below; It has froze every fountain that gushed in her bosom, And chilled her heart's verdure with pitiless woe: Her parents, her kindred, all crushed by oppression; Her husband still doomed in its desert to stay; No arm to protect from the tyrant's aggression-- She must weep as she treads on her desolate way.

O, slave-mother, hope! see--the nation is shaking!

The arm of the Lord is awake to thy wrong!

The slave-holder's heart now with terror is quaking Salvation and Mercy to Heaven belong!

Rejoice, O rejoice! for the child thou art rearing, May one day lift up its unmanacled form, While hope, to thy heart, like the rain-bow so cheering, Is born, like the rain-bow, 'mid tempest and storm.

How long! O! how long!

How long will the friend of the slave plead in vain?

How long e'er the Christian will loosen the chain?

If he, by our efforts, more hardened should be, O Father, forgive him! we trust but in thee.

That 'we're all free and equal,' how senseless the cry, While millions in bondage are groaning so nigh!

O where is our freedom? equality where?

To this none can answer, but echo cries, where?

O'er this stain on our country we'd fain draw a veil, But history's page will proclaim the sad tale, That Christians, unblushing, could shout 'we are free,'