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, Say, is it real—or but the unquiet breath 'Twas morning—and the smouldering, blackened pile, The throb of agony, the burst of woe, The eye of eloquence, the Orphan's tale, Why should I weep? No, 'twas the shivering child Fair CHARITY amid the throng appear! Her magic voice bade every heart attend, And eyes unknown to weep were moist with Pity's dew: Again was heard the Orphan's prayer, I KNEW the boy, and he was such an one Death! how could'st thou such comeliness destroy? I saw him flushed with health, the opening rose I saw him in the agonizing hour, When pain was struggling with its victim, there 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! Had left heaven's impress on the sleeping clay,- GETHSEMANE. 'Tis midnight, and on Olive's brow 'Tis midnight, and from all removed, Heeds not his Master's grief and tears. D 'Tis midnight, and for other's guilt 'Tis midnight, from the heavenly plains, THE SLAVEHOLDER'S THRONE. THE slaveholder's throne is the African's grave, On those beauteous isles, pearly gems of the deep, All of nature is lovely and fair; 'Tis man, godlike man, bids his fellow to weep, His brother casts out to despair. Could your griefs, wretched slaves! could your injuries speak, O, 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 soul That 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? Do our hearts the oblation of gratitude pay, My country! that plightedst to freedom thy troth, Redeem it!-thou art not yet free; On Eternity's page thou recordedst thine oath, 'Tis broken! there's Slavery with thee. |