Her heart and pulse beat firm and free; but in a crimson flood, power: "My noble lord is placed within a safe and sure retreat”— "Now tell us where, thou lady bright, as thou wouldst mercy meet, Nor deem thy life can purchase his; he cannot 'scape our wrath, For many a warrior's watchful eye is placed o'er every path. "But thou may'st win his broad estates to grace thine infant heir, "And if ye seek to view his form, ye first must tear away, THE SLAVE-MOTHER'S FAREWELL. May God have mercy on thee, son, for man's stern heart hath none! I would the bitter tears, that steep thy young and grief-doomed head, When, starting through my timid heart, the thought that thou couldst die Shot, even amidst a mother's bliss, a pang of agony. My boy my boy! Oh cling not thus around me in thy grief! How may I live bereft of thee? Thy smile was all that flung Farewell! farewell!--They tear thee hence—and yet my heart beats on; How can it bear the weight of life when thou art from me gone? Mine own! mine own! Yet cruel hands have bartered thee for gold, And torn thee, with a ruthless grasp, forever from my hold! THE PARTING.1. It has been well and beautifully said that there is no medicine for a wounded heart, like the sweet influences of Nature. The broad, still, beautiful expansion of a summer landscapethe stealing in of the sunlight by glimpses among the treesthe unexpected meeting with a favorite blossom, half hidden among the luxuriant verdure-the sudden starting of a wild bird, almost from beneath your feet-the play of light and shade upon the surface of the gliding brook, and the ceaseless, glad, musical ripple of its waters-the gushing melody poured from a thousand throats, or the rapid and solitary warble, breaking out suddenly on the stillness, and withdrawn again almost as soon as heard the soft, hymn-like murmur of the honeybees-and above all, the majesty of the blue, clear, bending sky!-from all these steals forth a spirit of calm enjoyment, that mingles silently with the darker thoughts of the heart, and removes their bitterness. "If thou art worn and hard beset, With sorrows that thou wouldst forget- Dim the sweet look that Nature wears." Yet there are moods of the soul that even the ministering tenderness of Nature cannot brighten. There are sorrows which she cannot soothe, and, too often, alas! darker passions, which all her sweet and balmy influences cannot hush into tranquillity. When the human heart is foul with avarice, and the unblest impulses of tyranny, the eloquence of her meek beauty is breathed in vain. The most sublime and lovely scenes of nature have been made the theatre of wrong and violence; and the stony heart of the oppressor, though surrounded by the broad evidences of omnipotent love, has persisted, unrelenting, in the selfishness of its own device. There was all the gloriousness of summer beauty round the little bay, in whose sleeping waters rested a small vessel, almost freighted for her departure. A few human beings, only, were to be added to her cargo, and as her spiry masts caught the first Heart-rending as this "Parting" is, the author assures us in a note that it is but a description of what, to her own knowledge, had actually occurred. rays of the beaming sunlight, the frequent hoarse and brief command, and the ready response of the seamen, told that they were about to weigh anchor and depart. Among those who approached the shore, was a household group, a mother and her babes, the price of whose limbs lay heaped in the coffers of one who called himself a Christian, and who were now about to be torn from the husband and the father forever. It was a Christian land; and, perchance, if the bustle of the departing vessel had not drowned its murmur, the voice of praise and prayer to the merciful and just God might have been dimly heard floating off upon the still waters. But there was no one to save those unhappy beings from the grasp of unrighteous tyranny. The husband had been upon the beach since daybreak, pacing the sands with a troubled step, or lying in moody anguish by the water's edge, covering his face from the breaking in of the glorious sunlight, and pleading at times with the omnipotent God, whom, slave as he was, he had learned to worship, for strength to subdue the passionate grief and indignation of his heart, and for humility patiently to endure his many wrongs. A little fond arm was twined about his neck, and the soft lip of a young child was breathing loving, but half sorrowful kisses all over his burning forehead. "Father! dear father! we are going! will you not come with us? look where my mother, and my sisters and brothers are waiting for you." With a shuddering and convulsive groan the unhappy man arose, and lifted the frighted child to his bosom. "Will you not go with us, father?" repeated the boy: but the slave made him no answer, except by straining him to his bosom with a short bitter laugh, and imprinting one of his sobbing kisses upon his cheek. With a convulsive effort for the mastery, he subdued the workings of his features, and with a seemingly calm voice and countenance, approached his children. One by one he folded them in his arms, and, breathing over them a prayer and a blessing, gave them up forever. Then once more he strove to nerve his heart for its severest trial.There was one more parting-one more sad embrace to be given and returned.-There stood the mother of his children -his own fond and gentle wife, who had been for so many years his heart's dearest blessing; and who, ere one short hour had passed, was to be to him as if the sea had swallowed her up in its waves, or the dark gloomy earth had hidden her be neath its bosom! A thousand recollections and agonizing feel ings came rushing at once upon his heart, and he stood gazing on her, seemingly bewildered and stupefied, motionless as a statue, and with features to which the very intensity of his passion gave the immobility of marble; till, suddenly flinging up his arms with a wild cry, he dropped at once senseless to the earth, with the blood gushing in torrents from his mouth and nostrils. And the miserable wife, amid the shrieks of her despair, was hurried on board the vessel, and borne away from him, over the calm, sleeping, and beautiful sea, forever. SAMUEL J. SMITH, 1771-1835. THIS excellent man and true poet was one of the Smiths of Burling ton, New Jersey, and was the grandson of the historian of that State. He passed a life of singular seclusion on his paternal estate near the city of Burlington, in the practice of all the virtues that purify and ennoble the character. Affluent, unambitious, fond of general reading and of the pursuits of a country life, and shrinking from intercourse with strangers, he devoted himself to the duties of his private station; was the counsellor and benefactor of the poor around him; and to the few friends who enjoyed his intimacy, one of the most charming of companions. His verses were the careless effusions of a man of genius, indifferent to fame; a shrewd observer of life and manners, of keen satiric wit, of tender sensibility, of earnest and humble piety. A volume of his poetry was published after his death, which occurred in 1835. It is of various and unequal merit, and has never been widely circulated. From this volume the following pieces are selected. We know of no Scripture paraphrase that surpasses the stanzas on the 8th chapter of Matthew. Their chaste and classical beauties, their pure morality and religious feeling, claim for them a place in every collection of American poetry. OH, HOW GREAT IS THY GOODNESS. When I look round, and see the love, the care, Can I pass on, "with brute unconscious gaze," Nor with one faltering accent whisper praise? From those bright orbs, which, through the realms of space, Down through creation, far as we may trace What vivid hues the floral tribes adorn! What fragrance floats upon the gales of even! What floods of radiance gild the unfolding morn! And dazzling splendor gems the midnight heaven! What glorious scenes on every hand impart A glow of transport to the untainted heart! How sweet, though transient, man! thy tarriance here! Saw'st thou the worm his humble path pursue, But lo! what magic bursts the dreary tomb! A blaze of splendor o'er his glossy wings. Thy emblem this! for death must quickly hide Thy fragile form, to the poor worm allied, No! there are worlds in bloom immortal drest, Departed spirits of the good repose; With powers enlarged their Maker's works explore, And find, through endless years, new cause to wonder and adore. |