A CHRISTIAN SLAVE.

But wisely shut the ray

Of God's free gospel, from the simple heart;
And to her darkened mind alone impart,
One stern command-Obey.

So shalt thou deftly raise

The market price of human flesh and while,
On thee the pampered guest, the planters smile,
Thy church shall praise.

Grave, reverend men shall tell

From Northern pulpits how Thy work was blest,
While in that vile South Sodom first and best,
Thy poor disciples sell.

Oh shame! The Moslem thrall

Who with his master, to the Prophet kneels,
While turning to the sacred Kebla, feels
His fetters break and fall.

Cheers for the turbaned Bey

Of robber-peopled Tunis! he hath torn
The dark slave dungeon open, and hath borne
The inmates into day.

But our poor slave in vain

Turns to the Christian shrine his aching eyes--
Its rites will only swell his market price,
And rivet on his chain.

God of all right! how long

Shall priestly robbers at thine altar stand,
Lifting in prayer to thee, the bloody hand,
And haughty brow of wrong?

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A CHRISTIAN SLAVE.

Oh! from the fields of cane,

From the low rice-swamps, from the trader's cell,
From the black slave ship's foul and loathsome hell,
And Coffle's weary chain,—

Hoarse, horrible, and strong,
Rises to heaven that agonising cry,
Filling the arches of the hollow sky,

How long! Oh God! How long!

WHITTIER.

WHEN George Fox thundered in the ears of Priest and Prelate the great truths of spiritual liberty: when the eloquence of the youthful and zealous Edward Burrough awed the very mob into silence, and smote on the ear of Cromwell, like the voice of an accusing conscience, calling him back to his first love of Truth when Penn and Barclay grappled with hoary error, alike regardless whether it was clothed in the majesty of perverted law or consecrated with the baptismal sanctions of a corrupt Priesthood, until the whole land shook-there were the conservators who exclaimed-"Let us have peace in our day." The time is, I trust, not far distant, when the slaveholder shall no longer regard the society of Friends as in any degree opposed to the Christian and well meant endeavours of the friends of emancipation: but that in every heart which beats for the suffering, whatever garb may cover it; in every prayer put up in sincerity to the Father of mercies for the deliverance of the captive, whether uttered in our own quiet gatherings, or mingling with the forms of another worship: in every voice of common humanity pleading for the down-trodden and oppressed whether speaking in the language of Woolman or of Clarkson-we may recognise our own precious testimony: and rejoice that the "little one has become a thousand, and that the seed sown in weakness by our worthy predecessors has been raised up in power." J. G. W.

our

FOR an

Death of the Sagamore.

account of William Wilson's Visit to his Death-bed, see "Thatcher's Indian Biography."

THE servant of God is on his way,

From Boston's beautiful shore-
His boat skims light o'er the silvery bay,
While the sleeping waters awake and play,
At the touch of the skilful oar.

The purpose that fills his soul is great,
As the soul of man can know :
Vast as eternity-strong as the gate
The spirit must pass, to a changeless state,
And enter to bliss or woe.

The boat is fast-and over the sod,
Of a neighbouring wood he hies:
Through moor and thicket his path is trod,
As he hastens to speak of the living God,
In the ear of a man who dies!

Where Romney's forest is high and dark,

The Eagle lowers her wing,

O'er him who once had made her his mark-
For the Sagamore in his hut of bark,

Is a perishing, powerless king!

At the door of his wigwam hangs the bow,
The antler and beaver skin-

While he who bore them is faint and low,

With his eyeballs dim, and his breathing slow
And the monarch expires within!

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THE DEATH OF THE SAGAMORE.

The eye that glanced and the Eagle fled,
Away through her fields of air,

The hand that drew and the deer was dead,
The hunter's foot, and the chieftain's head,
And the conquerer's arm are there.

But each his powerful work has done—
Its triumph at length is passed:
The final conflict is now begun-

And weeping, the mother hangs over her son,
While the Sagamore breathes his last!

The "Queen of the Massachusetts" grieves,
That the life of her child must end-
And that is a noble breast that heaves,
With a mortal pang on the bed of leaves,—
Of the White man's Indian Friend.

The stately form which is prostrate there,
On the feet that are cold as snow,
Has often sped in the midnight air,
A word to the Christain's ear to bear,
Of the plot of his heathen foe.

And oft, when roaming the wild alone,
That generous heart would melt,

At the touch of a ray of light that shone

From the white man's God, till before His throne,

Almost has the Indian knelt!

Yet the fatal fear, the fear of man,

That bringeth to man a snare,
Has braced his knee as it just began

To bend-and the thought of a heathen clan,

Hath stifled a Christian's prayer.

THE DEATH OF THE SAGAMORE.

But now, like a flood to his trembling heart,
Hath the fear of God rushed in ;

And keener far than the icy dart,
Which rends the flesh and the spirit apart,
Is the thought of the heathen sin.

To the lonely spot where the Chief reclines,
While the herald of love draws nigh,
The Indian shrinks, as he marks the signs
Of a soul at peace, and the light that shines,
Alone from a Christian's eye.

"Alas!" he cried-in the strange deep tone Of one in the grasp of death,

"No God have I-I have lost my own,

"The spirit that makes the skies so bright,
With the print of his shining feet,

Who rolls the waters, and kindles the light,
Imprisons the winds, and gives them their flight,
I tremble His eye to meet.

"When Oh, if I openly had confessed,
And followed and loved Him here,
I now might flee to his arms for rest,
As the weary bird to her downy nest,
When the coming shades draw near.

"But grant me the one great boon I crave,
In this dread and awful hour,

When I shall have sunk in my forest grave,
Oh take my boy to thy home, and save,

2R

That beautiful forest flower.

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