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CONFLAGRATION OF THE ORPHAN ASYLUM
AT PHILADELPHIA, JAN. 24, 1822.
'Twas midnight, and the northern blast rode high ;
Hushed was the Orphan's prayer,
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, 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!
I KNEW the boy, and he was such an one
I saw him flushed with health, the opening rose
I saw him in the agonizing hour,
I saw him,—but the last long strife was o'er !
'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;
Heeds not his Master's grief and tears.
'Tis midnight, and for other's guilt
The Man of Sorrows weeps in blood ;
Is not forsaken by his God:
'Tis midnight, from the heavenly plains,
Is borne the song that angels know;
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
As on their cold ashes we tread?
My country! that plightedst to freedom thy troth,
Redeem it!—thou art not yet free ;
"Ţis broken! there's Slavery with thee,