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And dearer to his love, thy name,
Thy peace, Jerusalem-
Or the coronal's brightest gem.
Sped not to Palestine, men, who
Should fearless heralds prove?
In form, but one in love;
Their path is now untrod;
To the city of our God.
OCCASIONED BY THE REMOVAL OF THE CHEROKEES.
STAY, yet, white man, heaven no longer
Can thy lust of gain endure;
Crush not the defenceless poor.
"Lo, the Indian!”-child of sorrow,
Remnant of a mighty race;
Beams upon his dwelling place.
* Messrs. Fisk and Parsons.
Free as were his mountain breezes,
Once he roamed, the son of kings, Boundless was his rude dominion,
Where he drank his native springs.
Wouldst thou chase him from his covert,
Bid him to the desert fly?Wouldst thou tear him from the hill-side,
Where his father's ashes lie?
Thou hast seen upon his reason
Science her mild influence pour; Thou hast seen the ray of Bethlehem
Shine, where all was night before.
Man! of these wouldst thou despoil him?
Filch his heaven-drive hope afar? Yes, for sordid gold, the white man
Would blot out Redemption's Star.
God of justice, though pavilioned
'Mid the thunder, misery's sigh Claims thy notice. Thou’rt a Helper, When no other help is nigh.
MRS. SARAH J
She wakes not-she whose look was love,
Whose voice was music's breath--
That voice is lost in death.
To man's last foe hath bowed;
Unto the worm and shroud.
She wakes not-aye, from that long sleep
When shall earth's tenant wake? Dreams of the sepulchre are deep,
What shall those visions break? Unto that cell of gloom and damp,
Earth's tumults come not nigh; She wakes not at the hurried tramp,
Nor at the battle-cry.
She wakes not till the trumpet's tongue
Stirs shuddering sea and earth ; When worlds on worlds, in ruin flung,
Shall heave as at their birth. The heart that knew affliction's power,
The oft-dimmed eye, now sealed, Shall beat not, beam not, till that hour
In thunders is revealed.
She wakes not early ills to brave,
That bade her spirit bow;
The tears she unto sorrow gave,
Are gems of beauty now.
Escaped from night below;
That bright one, who may know?
TO MY TWO CHILDREN.
Ye are alive to bliss, my boys,
Your pulses beat to healthful play; Visions of peaceful heartfelt joys
Do they not hover o'er your way? Your bounding bosoms, light and free
Nor past nor future is their care; Sufficeth it alone, that ye
The bright alluring present share.
'Tis transient all--yet who shall break
The fair frail mirror of your mirth?
Ye to realities of earth!
With boyhood will depart that dream; And soon, to retrospect, the past
But shadows of the dead shall seem.
Who would forget, that when a child,
Life put on lovely robes for him?
That then imagination wild,
Flashed to the eyes that now are dim; Who can forget when hope danced high,
And Syren-Love of witchery sung? Some may forget, but ne'er shall I,
The white-winged hours when joy was young. Yea, though upon my tempered brow
Romance hath ceased to bind her flowers, 'Tis pleasant as I wander now,
To linger o'er my childish hours.
On bliss so simple, yet sincere;
And feast my aching vision here!
Than darkly read the coming ill;
But heedlessness is childhood's still.
To drug the life-cup of our tears; Existence, thou wouldst wear a charm
Did prescience come not with thy years. Laugh on, my children, while ye may,
Yours now is not the actor's part; That laugh, perchance, in future day,
May vainly hide a broken heart;
Ingenuous feeling, brightly new;
Are ever holy, ever true.