To serve the tyrant whom I hate

To crouch beneath his proud commandUpon my flesh to bear his brand

His blows, his bitter scorn to bide ! Would God I, in my native land,

Had with my slaughtered kinsmen died !

Ye mountains blue of Camalu,

Where once I fed my father's flock, Though desolation dwells with you,

And Amakosa's heart is broke,– Yet, spite of chains these limbs that mock,

My homeless heart to you doth fly, As flies the wild dove to the rock,

To hide its wounded breast-and die.

Yet, ere my spirit wings its flight

Unto death's silent, shadowy clime, Utíka,* Lord of life and light,

Who, high above the clouds of time, Calm sittest where yon hosts sublime

Of stars wheel round thy bright abode,Oh, let my cry unto Thee climb,

Of every race the Father-God !

I ask not judgments from thy hand

Destroying hail, nor parching drought, Nor locust-swarms to waste the land,

Nor pestilence by famine brought : I say the prayer Jankannat taught,

Who wept for Amakosa's wrongsThy kingdom come—thy will be wrought

For unto thee all power belongs.

* A word of Hottentot origin, signifying the Beautiful, now used by most of the South African tribes as the name of the Supreme Being the Christian God.

+ The Caffre name for Dr. Vanderkemp.

Thy kingdom come! Let light and grace

Throughout all lands in triumph go;
Till pride and strife to love give place,

And blood and tears shall cease to flow;
Till Europe mourn for Afric's wo,

And o’er the deep her arms extend,
To lift her where she lieth low,



Levi Parsons.-BRAINARD,

[The Rev. Levi Parsons, who was associated with the Rev. Pliny Fisk, on

the Palestine mission, died at Alexandria, February 18th, 1822.]

GREEN as Machpelah's honored field,

Where Jacob and where Leah lie,
Where Sharon's shrubs their roses yield,

And Carmel's branches wave on high ;
So honored, so adorned, so green,
Young martyr! shall thy grave be seen.

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Oh! how unlike the bloody bed,

Where pride and passion seek to lie;
Where faith is not, where hope can shed

No tear of holy sympathy.
There withering thoughts shall drop around,
In dampness, on the lonely mound.

On Jordan's weeping willow trees

Another holy harp is hung:
It murmurs in as soft a breeze,

As e'er from Gilead's balm was flung,
When Judah's tears, in Babel's stream
Dropped, and when“ Zion was their theme."

So may the harp of Gabriel sound,

In the high heaven, to welcome thee,
When, rising from the holy ground

Of Nazareth and Galilee,
The saints of God shall take their flight,
In rapture, to the realms of light.


African Colonization.-BRAINARD.

[The project for colonizing in Africa the “ free people of color? is the

subject of these lines.]

All sights are fair to the recovered blind,

All sounds are music to the deaf restored ; The lame, made whole, leaps like the sporting hind;

And the sad, bowed-down sinner, with his load

Of shame and sorrow, when he cuts the cord, And drops the pack it bound, is free again,

In the light yoke and burden of his Lord. Thus, with the birthright of his fellow man, Sees, hears and feels at once the righted African.

'Tis somewhat like the burst from death to life;

From the grave's cerements to the robes of heaven ; From sin's dominion, and from passion's strife,

To the pure freedom of a soul forgiven !

When all the bonds of death and hell are riven, And mortals put on immortality ;

When fear, and care, and grief away are driven, And mercy's hand has turned the golden key, And mercy's voice has said, “Rejoice—thy soul is free !"


The Invalid on the east End of Long Island.-BRAINARD,

FEEBLE, with languid, staff-supported step,
And heavy eye, and heavier heart, I tread
The sun-scorched sand, and breathe the sultry air
That hovers on the road. One effort more,
One mile or two at most, and then I stand
Where I can feel the balmy breath of heaven.
The grassy lane, o’erarched with boughs and leaves,
Runs its green vista to a small, bright point,
And that point is the ocean. Faint the limbs,
And all the body tires—but for the soul,
It hath its holiday in such a spot.

A moment rest we on the only stone
In all the alley-wipe the sweating brow,
And drop the eye upon the turf around.

The notes of birds are heard in other groves,
And every where are welcome, for the song
Of gladness and of innocence is sweet
To all. But here, and to the weary too,
'Tis exquisite ; for with it comes the sound,
Not of the wind-fanned leaves, and rustling boughs,
And wavy tree-tops only--but the voice
Of ocean

He has heard its mighty sound,
Whose bark was on its awful waters, where
The billows swept the deck, and rioted,
Mixed with the winds, round all its gallant spars.
He too has heard its moanings, who, becalmed,
Lies like a small thing, helpless and alone,
Upon a rolling waste immensity.
And he has heard another tone, who marks
Its furious dance among the leeward rocks,
Where he must bear its ravings o'er his bones.

But, in this calm and leafy grove, the sound
Is smoother, softer, sweeter, than the harp
That the winds love to play on.

Let us rise
And view the giant that can tune his voice
To every passione that can touch each chord
That vibrates in a saint's or sinner's heart.
-But to the shore. Oh! what a depth of wave,
And what a length of foam ! that solemn voice !
'Tis louder and yet sweeter.—They mistake
Who call it hoarse : they never, on the white
And pebbly beach, in peace and quietness,
Have heard it roaror watched the spray
That, venturing farthest on the smooth white sand,
Kisses, retires, and comes to kiss again.

Upon the utmost bound, a clear white jet
Of water, from the dark green wave, betrays
The sporting of the whale ; and, nearer shore,
The sea-birds rise upon their wetted wings,
And bear their prey far to their lonely nests.

The sun sets—and the blushing water turns
To a blue, star-spread, foam-tipped, wavy sea
Of beauty. Yonder sweeps a brave white sail,
Bending as gracefully in evening's breeze
As a keen skater on the glassy ice.
And now, even as some hospitable man
Will light his going guest into the path,
And bid God bless him, as he speeds his way
Onward, alone, into the untried dark,
The lighthouse-last of friends that ship may see
Points out the course, till, far beyond its beam,
The sea-fire of the ocean only shines.

Away, from all that's bright and beautiful, From the fresh breeze, and from the glorious view, From all that's lovely, noble or sublime, To the sick pillow and the feverish bed. There may good angels watch me, and good thoughts Crowd to my dreaming and my waking hours;

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