He spurred his steed, he couched his lance, -As motionless as rocks, that bide The Bruce stood fast.-Each breast beat high, His course-but soon his course was o'er! XXVII. THE MOTHER AND HER DEAD CIIII D.-Moir, WITH ceaseless sorrow, uncontrolled, The mother mourned her lot; She wept, and would not be consoled, Because her child was not. She gazed upon its nursery floor- But there it did not play; The toys it loved, the clothes it wore, All void and vacant lay. Her house, her heart, were dark and drear, The little star had left its sphere. Her tears, at each returning thought. Time on its wings no healing brought, Even in the middle hour of night But, by the taper's misty light, Sat nourishing her grief. 66 'Twas then a sight of solemn awe 'O child! what brings that breathless form For, well I know, no life can warm "The grave is now your bed my child, "I cannot go," it answered mild, "I've tried to rest in that dark bed, For always, with the tears you shed, "The drops, dear mother! trickle still It feels so comfortless and chill, "O child! those words-that touching look, My fortitude restore: I feel and own the blest rebuke, And weep thy loss no more.' She spoke, and dried her tears the while; The vision wore an angel smile, And looked a fond farewell! XXVIII. THE AFRICAN CHIEF.-Bryant. CHAINED in the market-place he stood-a man of giant frame, Vainly, but well, that chief had fought he was a captive now; The scars his dark broad bosom wore, showed warrior true and brave; Then to his conqueror he spake "My brother is a king; 'Not for thy ivory nor thy gold will I unbind thy chain; That fettered hand shall never hold the battle-spear again. For thou shalt be the Christian's slave, in lands beyond the sea." Then wept the warrior-chief, and bade to shred his locks away, Yet wore not long those fatal bands; for soon, at shut of day, XXIX. THE SLAVE'S PETITION.-Mrs. Norton. It was an aged man, who stood beside the blue Atlantic sea; They cast his fetters by the flood, and hailed the time-worn captive free; From his indignant eye there flashed a gleam his better nature gave; And while his tyrants shrank abashed, thus spoke the spirit-stricken Slave: 66 'Bring back the chain, whose weight so long these tortured limbs have vainly borne; The word of freedom from your tongue, my weary ear rejects with scorn! 'Tis true, there was there was a time, I sighed, I panted to be free, And, pining for my sunny clime, bowed down my stubborn knee. "Then I have stretched my yearning arms, and shook in wrath my galling chain;— Then, when the magic word had charms, I groaned for Liberty, in vain! That freedom ye at length bestow, and bid me bless my envied fate: Ye tell me I am free to go--where?—I am desolate! "The boundless hope the spring of joy, felt when the spirit's strength is young; Which slavery only can alloy,--the mockeries to which I clung; The eyes, whose fond and sunny ray made life's dull lamp less dimly burn, The tones I pined for day by day,-can ye bid them return? 66 'Bring back the chain !—its clanking sound hath now a power beyond your own; It brings young visions smiling round, too fondly loved--too early flown! It brings me days when these dim eyes gazed o'er the wild and swelling sea, Counting how many suns must rise ere one might hail me free! "Bring back the chain! that I may think 'tis that which weighs my spirit so; And, gazing on each galling link, dream- -as I dreamt-of bitter woe! My days are gone;--of hope, of youth, these traces now alone remain- (Hoarded with sorrow's sacred truth)-tears, and my iron chain! Freedom!--Though doomed in pain to live, the freedom of the soul is mine; But all of slavery you could give, around my steps must ever twine. Raise up the head which age hath bent, renew the hopes that childhood gave, Bid all return kind Heaven once lent;-till then-I am a slave!" XXX.-THE FELON.-M. G. Lewis. OH! mark his wan and hollow cheeks, and mark his eye-balls' glare, And mark his teeth in anguish clinched-the anguish of despair! Know, three days since, his penance o'er, yon culprit left a jail ; And since three days, no food has passed those lips, so parched and pale. “Where shall I turn?" the wretch exclaims; "where hide my shameful head? How fly from scorn, or how contrive to earn an honest bread? This branded hand would gladly toil; but when for work I pray, Who views this mark A felon!' cries, and loathing turns away. 66 My heart has greatly erred-but now would fain return to good! My hand has deeply sinned-but yet has ne'er been stained with blood! For alms, or work, in vain I sue the scorners both deny: I starve! I starve! Then what remains? this choice-to sin, or die! "Here, Virtue spurns me with disdain,-there, Pleasure spreads her snare; Strong habit drives me back to vice; and, urged by fierce despair, I strive, while hunger gnaws my heart, to fly from shame-in vain! World! 'tis thy cruel will!-I yield, and plunge in guilt again! "There's mercy, in each ray of light that mortal eyes e'er saw; There's mercy, in each breath of air that mortal lips e'er draw; There's mercy, both for bird and beast in Heaven's indulgent plan; There's mercy, in each creeping thing--but man has none for man! 66 'Ye proudly honest! when you heard my wounded conscience groan, Had generous hand, or feeling heart, one glimpse of mercy shown; That act had made, from burning eyes, sweet tears of virtue roll, Had fixed my heart, assured my faith and heaven had gained a soul!" XXXI. THE SAILOR.-Rogers. THE sailor sighs as sinks his native shore, He climbs the mast to feast his eyes once more, Ah! now, each dear domestic scene he knew,— Its colours mellowed, not impaired, by Time. Attends his little bark from pole to pole; And, when the beating billows round him roar, Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul. Carved is her name in many a spicy grove, In many a plantain-forest waving wide: Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove, And giant palms o'er-arch the golden tide. But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail! Lo! o'er the cliff, what eager figures bend! And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale! In each, he hears the welcome of a friend! 'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand!__ Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furled; Soon through the whitening surge he springs to land, And clasps the maid he singled from the world! 66 XXXII. THE ORPHAN BOY.-Mrs. Opie. STAY, Lady! stay for mercy's sake, Yet I was once a mother's pride, And my brave father's hope and joy; And see the lighted windows flame! |