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Fall the keen and burning lashes, never on his back

or limb; Scarce with look or word of censure, turns the

driver unto him.

Yet, his brow is always thoughtful, and his eye is

hard and stern; Slavery's last and humblest lesson, he has never

deigned to learn. And, at evening, when his comrades dance before

their master's door, Folding arms and knitting forehead, stands he

silent evermore.

God be praised for every instinct which rebels

against a lot, Where the brute survives the human, and man's

upright form is not !

As the serpent-like bejuco winds his spiral fold on

fold, Round the tall and stately ceiba, till it withers in

his hold ;

Slow decays the forest monarch, closer girds the

fell embrace, Till the tree is seen no longer, and the vine is in

its place

So a base and bestial nature, round the vassal's

manhood twines, And the spirit wastes beneath it, like the ceiba

choked with vines.

God is Love, saith the Evangel; and our world of

woe and sin Is made light and happy only, when a Love is

shining in.

Ye whose lives are free as sunshine, finding where

soe'er ye roam, Smiles of welcome, looks of kindness, making all

the world like home;

In the veins of whose affections, kindred blood is

but a part, Of one kindly current throbbing from the universal


Can ye know the deeper meaning of a lore in

Slavery nursed, Last Power of a lost Eden, blooming in that Soil

accursed ?

Love of Home, and Love of Woman dear to all,

but doubly dear To the heart whose pulses elsewhere measure only

hate and fear.

All around the desert circles, underneath a brazen

sky, Only one green spot remaining where the dew is

never dry! From the horror of that desert, from its atmosphere

of hell, Turns the fainting spirit thither, as the diver seeks

his bell.

'Tis the fervid tropic noontime; faint and low the

sea-waves beat; IIazy rise the inland mountains through the glim

mer of the heat,Where, through mingled leaves and blossoms ar * We shall live as slaves no longer! Freedom's

rowy sunbeams flash and glisten, Speaks her lover to the slave girl, and she lifts her

head to listen :

hour is close at hand ! Rocks her bark upon the waters, rests the boat

upon the strand !

"I have seen the Haytien Captain ; I have seen

his swarthy crew, llaters of the pallid faces, to their race and color


* They have sworn to wait our coming till the night

has passed its noon, And the gray and darkening waters roll above the

sunken moon!”

Oh! the blessed hope of freedom ! how with joy

and glad surprise, For an instant throbs her bosom, for an instant

beam her eyes ! But she looks across the valley, where her mother's

hut is seen, Through the snowy bloom of coffee, anu the lemon

leaves so green. And she answers, sad and earnest: “It were wrong

for thee to stay ; God hath heard thy prayer for freedom, and his

finger points the way. "Well I know with what endurance, for the sake

of me and mine, Thou hast borne too long a burden, never meant

for souls like thine.

"Go; and at the hour of midnight, when our last

farewell is o'er, Kneeling on our place of parting, I will bless thee “ But for me, my mother, lying on her sick bed all

from the shore.

the day, Lifts her weary head to watch me, coming through

the twilight gray. “ Should I leave her sick and helpless, even free.

dom, shared with thee, Would be sadder far than bondage, lonely toil, and

stripes to me.


heart would die within me, and my

brain would soon be wild : I should hear my mother calling through the twi

light for her child !”

Blazing upward from the ocean, shines the sun of

morning time, Through the coffee-trees in blossom, and green

hedges of the lime.

Side by side, amidst the slave gang, toil the lover

and the maid; Wherefore looks he o'er the waters, leaning for

ward on his spade ?

sail he sees,

Sadly looks he, deeply sighs he: 'tis the Haytien's Like a white cloud of the mountains, driven sea

ward by the breeze!

But his arm a light hand presses, and he hears a

low voice call : Hate of Slavery, hope of Freedom, Love is mightier

than all.




Across the Stony Mountains, o’er the desert's

drouth and sand, The circles of our empire touch the Western

Ocean's strand; From slumberous Timpanogos, to Gila, wild and

free, Flowing down from Neuva Leon to California's

sea; And from the mountains of the East, to Santa

Rosa's shore, The eagles of Mexitli shall beat the air no more. O Vale of Rio Bravo! Let thy simple children

weep; Close watch about their holy fire let maids of Pecos

keep; Let Taos send her cry across Sierra Madre's pines, And Algodones toll her bells amidst her corn and

vines; For lo! the pale land-seekers come, with eager

eyes of gain, Wide scattering, like the bison herds on broad

Salada's plain. Let Sacramento's herdsmen heed what sound, the

winds bring down, Of footsteps on the crisping snow, from cold Neve

da's crown! Full hot and fast the Saxon rides, with rein of

travel slack, And, bending o'er his saddle, leaves the sunrise at

bis back;

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