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ALMS-ALMS for our hunters ! why will ye delay,
When their pride and their glory are melting away?
The parson has turned; for, on charge of his own,
Who goeth a warfare, or hunting, alone ?
The politic statesman looks back with a sigh-
There is doubt in his heart—there is fear in his eye.
Oh! haste, lest that doubting and fear shall prevail,
And the head of his steed take the place of the tail
Oh! haste, ere he leave us ! for who will ride then,
For pleasure or gain, to the hunting of men ?



(In the Report of the celebrated pro-slavery meeting in Charleston, S. C., on the 4th of the 9th month, 1835, published in the Courier of that city, it is stated, “ The CLERGY of all denominations attended in a body, LENDING THEIR SANCTION TO THE PRO CEEDINGS, and adding by their presence to the impressive char acter of the scene!"]

Just God !-and these are they Who minister at thine altar, God of Right! Men who their hands with prayer and blessing lay

On Israel's Ark of light !

What! preach and kidnap men ?
Give thanks--and rob thy own afflicted poor?
Talk of thy glorious liberty, and then

Bolt hard the captive's door ?

What! servants of thy own
Merciful Son, who came to seek and save
The homeless and the outcast,-fettering down

The tasked and plundered slave!

Pilate and Herod, friends!
Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine!
Just God and holy ! is that church, which lends

Strength to the spoiler, thine ?

Paid hypocrites, who turn Judgment aside, and rob the Holy Book Of those high words of truth which search and burn

In warning and rebuke;

Feed fat, ye locusts, feed !
And, in your tasselled pulpits, thank the Lord
That, from the toiling bondman's utter need,

Ye pile your own full board.

How long, O Lord ! how long
Shall such a priesthood barter truth away,
And, in thy name, for robbery and wrong

At thy own altars pray?

Is not thy hand stretched forth Visibly in the heavens, to awe and smite ? Shall not the living God of all the earth,

And heaven above, do right?

Woe, then, to all who grind
Their brethren of a common Father down!
To all who plunder from the immortal mind

Its bright and glorious crown!

Woe to the priesthood! woe
To those whose hire is with the price of blood
Perverting, darkening, changing as they go,

The searching truths of God!

Their glory and their might
Shall perish; and their very names shall be
Vile before all the people, in the light

Of a world's liberty.

Oh! speed the moment on When

Wrong shall cease--and Liberty, and Love, And Truth, and Right, throughout the earth be

known As in their home above.


[IN a lala publication of L. F. TASISTRO, “Random Shots and Bouthern Breezes," is a description of a slave auction at New Orleans, at which the auctioneer recommended the woman on the stand as “A GOOD CHRISTIAN!"


A ChristiAN! going, gone!
Who bids for God's own image ?—for his grace
Which that poor victim of the market-place

Hath in her suffering won ?

My God! can such things be ?
Hast Thou not said that whatsoe'er is done
Unto thy weakest and thy humblest one,

Is even done to Thee ?

In that sad victim, then,
Child of thy pitying love, I see Thee stand-
Once more the jest-word of a mocking band,

Bound, sold, and scourged again!

A Christian up for sale ! Wet with her blood your whips-'ertask her

frame, Make her life' loathsome with your wrong and

Her patience shall not fail !

A heathen hand might deal Back on your heads the gathered wrong of years, But her low, broken prayer and nightly tears,

Ye neither heed nor feel.

Con well thy lesson o'er,
Thou prudent teacher-tell the toiling slave
No dangerous tale of Him who came to save

The outcast and the poor.

But wisely shut the ray
Of God's free Gospel from her 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, their pampered guest, the planters smile, shall praise.

Grave, reverend men shall tell
From Northern pulpits how thy work was blesty
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-dungeons open, and bath borne

Their 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?

Oh, from the fields of cane, From the low rice-swamp, from the trader's cellFrom the black slave-ship's foul and loathsome hell,

And coffle's weary chain,

Hoarse, horrible, and strong, Rises to Heaven that agonizing cry, Filling the arches of the hollow sky,



Is this the land our fathers loved,

The freedoin which they toiled to win ?
Is this the soil whereon they moved ?

Are these the graves they slumber in ?
Are we the sons by whom are borne
The mantles which the dead have worn ?

And shall we crouch above these graves,

With craven soul and fettered lip ? Yoke in with marked and branded slaves,

And tremble at the driver's whip? Bend to the earth our pliant knees, And speak-but as our masters please?

Shall outraged Nature cease to feel ?

Shall Mercy's tears no longer flow?
Shall ruffian threats of cord and steel

The dungeon's gloom—the assassin's blow,
Turn back the spirit roused to save
The Truth, our Country, and the Slave ?

Of human skulls that shrine was made,

Round which the priests of Mexico Before their loathsome idol prayed

Is Freedom's altar fashioned so? And must we yield to Freedom's God, As offering meet, the negro's blood ?

Shall tongues be mute, when deeds are wrougnt

Which well might shame extremest hell?

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