With those mild arms of Truth and Love,
Made mighty through the living God!

Down let the shrine of Moloch sink,

And leave no traces where it stood;
No longer let its idol drink

His daily cup of human blood:

But rear another altar there,

To Truth, and Love, and Mercy given,
And Freedom's gift, and Freedom's prayer,

Shall call an answer down from Heaven!

WHITTIER.

LINES

Written on reading an account of the meeting of the Boston Female Anti-Slavery Society, and the MOв which followed, on the 21st October

1835.

UNSHRINKING from the storm,
Well have ye born your part,

With WOMAN's fragile form,

But more than manhood's heart!

Faithful to Freedom, when

Its name was held accursed

Faithful, 'midst ruffian men,
Unto your holy trust.

Oh! steadfast in the Truth!

Not for yourselves alone,
Matron and gentle youth,

Your lofty zeal was shown:

For the bondman of all climes

For Freedom's last abode-
For the hope of future times-
For the birthright gift of God-

For scorned and broken laws

For honour and the right-
For the staked and periled cause
Of liberty and light-
For the holy eyes above

On a world of evil cast

For the CHILDREN of your love-
For the MOTHERS of the past!

Worthy of THEM are ye—

The Pilgrim wives who dared

The waste and unknown sea,

And the hunter's perils shared.

Worthy of her whose mind,

Triumphant over all,

Ruler nor priest could bind,
Nor banishment appal.

Worthy of her who died,

Martyr of Freedom, where

Your Common's verdant pride

Opens to sun and air:

Upheld at that dread hour

By strength which could not fail;

Before whose holy power

Bigot and priest turned pale.

God give ye strength to run,

Unawed by Earth or Hell,

The race ye have begun
So gloriously and well,
Until the trumpet-call

Of Freedom has gone forth,
With joy and life to all

The bondmen of the earth!

Until IMMORTAL MIND

Unshackled walks abroad,
And chains no longer bind
The image of our God.
Until no captive one

Murmurs on land or wave;

And, in his course, the sun

Looks down upon no SLAVE!

WHITTIER.

THE COVENANTER'S DREAM.

IN a dream of the night I was wafted away,

To the moorlands of mist, where the bless'd martyrs lay, Where Cameron's sword and Bible are seen,

Engraved on the stone, where the heather grows green.

'Twas a dream of the ages of darkness and blood,
When the minister's home was the mountains and wood;
When in Wellwood's dark moorlands the standard of Zion;
All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying;

It was morning, and summer's bright sun from the east, Lay in lovely repose on the green mountain's breast;

On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew Glistened sheen 'mong the heathbells and mountain flowers blue;

And far up in heaven, in the clear shining cloud,
The song of the lark was melodious and loud:
And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and deep,
Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.

And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed nothing but glad

ness;

The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness; Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,

And drink the delights of green July's bright morning.

But, ah! there were hearts cherished far other feelings,
Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings,
Who drank nought from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,
For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow,

'Twas the few faithful ones, who with Cameron were lying Concealed 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl were crying,

For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering, And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty covering.

Their faces were pale, and their swords were unsheathed, But the vengeance that darkened their brow was unbreathed:

With eyes raised to Heaven, in meek resignation,
They sung their last song to the God of Salvation.

The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing,
The curlew and plover in concert were singing;

But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter,

As the hosts of th' ungodly rushed on to the slaughter.

Though in mist, and in darkness, and fire they were shrouded,

Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded; Their dark eyes shot lightning, as, proud and unbending, They stood like the rock which the lightning is rending.

The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming, The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming; The heavens were dark, and the thunder was rolling, While in Wellwood's dark moorlands the mighty were falling.

When the righteous were fallen, and the combat had ended,

A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended,
Its attendants were angels, and cherubs of whiteness,
And its burning wheels turned upon axles of brightness;

A seraph unfolded the doors bright and shining,
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining;
And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation
Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation.

On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding, Through the paths of the thunder the horsemen are riding;

Glide swiftly, bright spirits, the prize is before ye,

A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory.

HISLOP.