Deep and still, that gliding stream
Beautiful to thee must seem,
As the river of a dream.
Then why pause with undecision,
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields Elysian?
Seest thou shadows sailing by,
As the dove, with startled eye,
Sees the falcon's shadow fly?
Hearest thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more,
Deafened by the cataract's roar?
O, thou child of many prayers!
Life hath quicksands,-Life hath
snares!

Care and age come unawares !

Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.
Childhood is the bough,

where

Gather, then, each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows.

Bear a lily in thy hand;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth.

O, that dew, like balm, shall steal
Into wounds, that cannot heal,
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;
And that smile, like sunshine dart
Into many a sunless heart,
For a smile of God thou art.

EXCELSIOR !

The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior!

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen

Among her children stand;

They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,

They held him by the hand!—
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids
And fell into the sand.

And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger's bank ;

His bridle-reins were golden chains,
And, with a martial clank,

At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel

Smiting his stallion's flank.

Before him, like a blood-red flag,
The bright flamingoes flew ;
From morn till night he followed their
flight,

O'er plains where the tamarind

grew,

Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,
And the ocean rose to view.

At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyæna scream,

And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds

Beside some hidden stream; And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,

Through the triumph of his dream. The forests, with their myriad tongues, Shouted of liberty;

And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,

With a voice so wild and free,

sleep,

He saw his Native Land.

smiled At their tempestuous glee.

dreams

The lordly Niger flowed;

Beneath the palm-trees on the plain Once more a king he strode ; And heard the tinkling caravans Descend the mountain-road.

Nor the burning heat of day;

For Death had illumined the Land of

Sleep,

And his lifeless body lay

A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away!

Though not of earth, encircles there
All things with arms of love.
And thus she walks among her girls
With praise and mild rebukes;
Subduing e'en rude village churls
By her angelic looks.

She reads to them at eventide

Of One who came to save ;
To cast the captive's chains aside,
And liberate the slave.

And oft the blessed time foretells
When all men shall be free;
And musical, as silver bells,

Their falling chains shall be.
And following her beloved Lord,
In decent poverty,

She makes her life one sweet record
And deed of charity.

For she was rich, and gave up all
To break the iron bands

Of those who waited in her hall,
And laboured in her lands.
Long since, beyond the Southern sea
Their outbound sails have sped,
While she, in meek humility,
Now earns her daily bread.

It is their prayers, which never cease,
That clothe her with such grace;
Their blessing is the light of peace
That shines upon her face.

THE SLAVE SINGING AT

MIDNIGHT.

LOUD he sang the Psalm of David!
He, a Negro and enslaved,
Sang of Israel's victory,
Sang of Zion, bright and free.

In that hour, when night is calmest,
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist
In a voice so sweet and clear
That I could not choose but hear.
Songs of triumph, and ascriptions,
Such as reached the swart Egyptians,
When upon the Red Sea coast
Perished Pharaoh and his host.
And the voice of his devotion
Filled my soul with strange emotion;
For its tones by turns were glad,
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.
Paul and Silas, in their prison,
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen,
And an earthquake's arm of might
Broke their dungeon-gates at night.

But, alas! what holy ange.
Brings the Slave this glad evangel?
And what earthquake's arm of might
Breaks his dungeon-gates at night?

THE WITNESSES.

IN Ocean's wide domains,
Half buried in the sands,
Like skeletons in chains,
With shackled feet and hands.
Beyond the fall of dews,

Deeper than plummet lies,
Float ships with all their crews,
No more to sink nor rise.
There the black Slave-ship swims,
Freighted with human forms,
Whose fettered, fleshless limbs,

Are not the sport of storms. These are the bones of Slaves;

They gleam from the abyss ; They cry, from yawning waves, 44 We are the Witnesses!" Within Earth's wide domains

Are markets for men's lives; Their necks are galled with chains, Their wrists are cramped with gyves.

Dead bodies, that the kite

In deserts makes its prey; Murders, that with affright Scare schoolboys from their play! All evil thoughts and deeds; Anger, and lust, and pride; The foulest, rankest weeds, That choke Life's groaning tide! These are the woes of Slaves; They glare from the abyss ; They cry, from unknown graves, We are the Witnesses!'

64

་་

THE QUADROON GIRL. THE Slaver in the broad lagoon Lay moored with idle sail; He waited for the rising moon, And for the evening gale.

Under the shore his boat was tied, And all her listless crew Watched the gray alligator slide Into the still bayou.

Odours of orange-flowers, and spice, Reached them from time to time, Like airs that breathe from Paradise Upon a world of crime.

The Planter, under his roof of thatch, Smoked thoughtfully and slow; The Slaver's thumb was on the latch, He seemed in haste to go.

He said, "My ship at anchor rides

In yonder broad lagoon;
I only wait the evening tides,

And the rising of the moon."

Before them, with her face upraised,
In timid attitude,

Like one half-curious, half-amazed,
A Quadroon maiden stood.

Her eyes were large, and full of light,
Her arms and neck were bare;
No garment she wore save a kirtle
bright,

And her own long raven hair.
And on her lips there played a smile
As holy, meek, and faint,
As lights in some cathedral aisle
The features of a saint.

"The soil is barren,—the farm is old,"
The thoughtful Planter said:
Then looked upon the Slaver's gold,
And then upon the maid.

In prison, and at last led forth to be A pander to Philistine revelry,Upon the pillars of the temple laid His desperate hands, and in its overthrow

Destroyed himself, and with him those who made

A cruel mockery of his sightless woe; The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all,

Expired, and thousands perished in the fall!

There is a poor, blind Samson in this land,

Shorn of his strength, and bound in

IN the ancient town of Bruges,
In the quaint old Flemish city,
As the evening shades descended,
Low and loud and sweetly blended,
Low at times and loud at times,
And changing like a poet's rhymes,
Rang the beautiful wild chimes
From the belfry in the market
Of the ancient town of Bruges.

Then, with deep sonorous clangour
Calmly answering their sweet anger,
When the wrangling bells had ended,
Slowly struck the clock eleven,
And, from out the silent heaven,
Silence on the town descended.
Silence, silence everywhere,
On the earth and in the air,
Save that footsteps here and there