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CONFLAGRATION OF THE ORPHAN ASYLUM

AT PHILADELPHIA, JAN. 24, 1822.

'Twas midnight, and the northern blast rode high ;
Nature lay torpid ’neath the iron power
Of chill midwinter. From the clear cold sky,
The stars shed quickened lustre ; 'twas the hour
Of brooding silence, heaviness and death ;

Hushed was the Orphan's prayer,
And hushed the holy hymn.

Say, is it real—or but the unquiet breath
Of fancy, whispering to the startled ear?
O God of Mercy! is there none to save ?
No powerful arm of blest protection here;
No kindly refuge from the burning grave ?

'Twas morning—and the smouldering, blackened

pile, The throb of agony, the burst of woe, The eye of eloquence, the Orphan's tale, Spoke the proud triumph of the midnight foe. I wept, and long I wept; yet not for those Dear innocents—who fed the funeral pyre ; For them, escaped from earth and earth-born woes, Their spirits wafted on one car of fire, Why should I weep ? No, 'twas the shivering child The living wretch, that claimed the pitying tear. When lo, a form I saw, of aspect mild,

Fair CHARITY amid the throng appear!
Her magic voice bade every heart attend,
Her influence, sweet, each feeling bosom knew,
And soon the helpless Orphan found a friend,
And eyes unknown to weep were moist with Pity's

dew :
Again was heard the Orphan's prayer,
Again the holy hymn.

I KNEW the boy, and he was such an one
As we can dearly love, nor question why ;
Of fragile form, yet fair, methinks the sun
Ne'er shone upon a lovelier, his eye
Sparkled with hope and innocence, delight
Dwelt in his motions, every thought was joy ;
Gentle in heart, attractive to the sight,
Death! how could'st thou such comeliness destroy?

I saw him flushed with health, the opening rose
Was not more sweet, his cheek had stolen its hue-
On his fair brow sat childhood's calm repose ;
His budding lip, surcharged with freshest dew,
Spake promise of long days, we fondly said
These charms will flourish-many a genial spring
Invigorating, will kind influence shed,
Ripening the plant, and full perfection bring:

I saw him in the agonizing hour,
When pain was struggling with its victim, there
Was loveliness remaining, though the power
Of fell disease, had blighted what was fair;
He knew me not,-already had he flown
In thought, to his empyrean, and ere
Some cherub called, “away!” he sought the throne ;
What should the traveller know of sorrow here?

I saw him,—but the last long strife was o'er !
'Twas hard, for Death had lingered with the blow,
Reluctant, seeming :-pale he was, but more
Of beauty have I never seen; the foe,
Unwilling to deface so sweet a germ,
Had left heaven's impress on the sleeping clay,-
There reigned, sublime, eternity's deep calm,
Death sat, a miling victor, on his prey.

GETHSEMANE.

'Tis midnight, and on Olive's brow

The star is dimmed that lately shone ; 'Tis midnight; in the garden now,

The suffering Saviour prays alone.

'Tis midnight, and from all removed,

Immanuel wrestles, lone, with fears;
E’en the disciple that he loved,

Heeds not his Master's grief and tears.

D

'Tis midnight, and for other's guilt

The Man of Sorrows weeps in blood ;
Yet he that hath in anguish knelt,

Is not forsaken by his God:

'Tis midnight, from the heavenly plains,

Is borne the song that angels know;
Unheard by mortals are the strains

That sweetly sooth the Saviour's wo.

THE SLAVEHOLDER'S THRONE.

THE slaveholder's throne is the African's grave,

Thou hast marked it on Caribbee's shore! He frowns, and the soil of the generous and brave,

Is steeped with the innocents' gore.

On those beauteous isles, pearly gems of the deep,

All of nature is lovely and fair ; 'Tis man, godliké man, bids his fellow to weep,

His brother casts out to despair.

Could your griefs, wretched slaves! could your in

juries speak, 0, God! what a tale to unfold; Blush, blush, guilty Europe! shroud, manhood, thy

cheek, Weep, weep for the passion of gold.

Yet that here where our symbol the wild eagle, flies,

O shame! writhes the African's soulThat on fields bought by freedom, an outcast he dies,

Time! veil it—'twill darken thy scroll.

Why smoke your proud summits, ye hills of the

slain? In days of the battle, why fell The thousands, whose bones whitened valley and

plain, When the war-cry was slavery's knell ?

Why laud we, exulting, the Festival Day?

And why to the glorious Dead
Do our hearts the oblation of gratitude pay,

As on their cold ashes we tread?

My country! that plightedst to freedom thy troth,

Redeem it!—thou art not yet free ;
On Eternity's page thou recordedst thine oath,

"Ţis broken! there's Slavery with thee,

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