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Of a Virginia Slave Mother to her Daughters, sold into Southern Bondage.


Gone, gone-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings,
Where the noisome insect stings,
Where the Fever Demon strews
Poison with the falling dews,
Where the sickly sunbeams glare
Through the hot and misty air,-

Gone, gone,-sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,—
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone.
There no mother's eye is near them,
There no mother's ear can hear them;
Never, when the torturing lash
Seams their back with many a gash,
Shall a mother's kindness bless them,
Or a mother's arms caress them.

Gone, gone-sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,—
Woe is me my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,

Oh, when weary, sad, and slow,
From the fields at night they go,
Faint with toil, and rack'd with pain,
To their cheerless homes again-

There no brother's voice shall greet them-
There no father's welcome meet them.

Gone, gone-sold and gone,
To the rice swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,—
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From the tree whose shadow lay
On their childhood's place of play-
From the cool spring where they drank→
Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank-
From the solemn house of prayer,
And the holy counsels there-

Gone, gone-sold and gone,
To the rice-swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters,-
Woe is me, my stolen daughters !

Gone, gone-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and lone-
Toiling through the weary day,
And at night the Spoiler's prey.
Oh, that they had earlier died,
Sleeping calmly side by side,
Where the tyrant's power is o'er,
And the fetter galls no more!

Gone, gone-sold and gone,
To the rice swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia's hills and waters-
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

Gone, gone-sold and gone,

To the rice-swamp dank and loneBy the holy love He bearethBy the bruised reed He sparethOh, may He, to whom alone All their cruel wrongs are known, Still their hope and refuge prove, With a more than mother's love. Gone, gone-sold and gone, To the rice-swamp dank and lone, From Virginia's hills and waters,— Woe is me, my stolen daughters!



We have been friends together,

In sunshine and in shade,
Since first beneath the chesnut trees
In infancy, we played ;-
But coldness dwells within thy heart,
A cloud is on thy brow:
We have been friends together-
Shall a light word part us now?
We have been gay together;-

We have laughed at little jests
When the fount of love was gushing
Warm and joyous in our breasts;-
But laughter now hath fled thy lips,
And sullen glooms thy brow:
We have been gay together-
Shall a light word part us now?

We have been sad together;
We have wept with bitter tears
O'er the grass grown graves,
where slumbered
The hopes of early years.
The voices which are silent there
Would bid thee clear thy brow,-
We have been sad together-
Oh, what shall part us now?



Mary G, aged 18, a "SISTER OF CHARITY," died in one of our Atlantic cities, during the prevalence of the Indian Cholera, while in voluntary attendance upon the sick.

"Bring out your dead!" the midnight street

Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call; Harsh fell the tread of hasty feet

Glanced through the dark the coarse white sheetHer coffin and her pall.

"What-only one!" The brutal hackman said, As, with an oath, he spurn'd away the dead.

How sunk the inmost hearts of all,

As roll'd that dead-cart slowly by,

With creaking wheel and harsh hoof-fall!
The dying turn'd him to the wall,

To hear it and to die !

Onward it roll'd; while oft its driver stay'd,
And hoarsely clamor'd, « Ho!-bring out your dead."

It paused beside the burial-place;

"Toss in your load!"—and it was done.--
With quick hand and averted face,
Hastily to the grave's embrace

They cast them, one by one-
Stranger and friend-the evil and the just,
Together trodden in the church-yard dust!
And thou, young martyr!-thou wast there-
No white-robed sisters round thee trod-
Nor holy hymn, nor funeral prayer
Rose through the damp and noisome air,
Giving thee to thy God;

Nor flower, nor cross, nor hallow'd taper gave
Grace to the dead, and beauty to the grave!

Yet, gentle sufferer!-there shall be,

In every heart of kindly feeling,

A rite as holy paid to thee

As if beneath the convent-tree

Thy sisterhood were kneeling,

At vesper hours, like sorrowing angels, keeping Their tearful watch around thy place of sleeping.

For thou wast one in whom the light

Of Heaven's own love was kindled well,
Enduring with a martyr's might,
Through weary day and wakeful night,

Far more than words may tell :
Gentle, and meek, and lowly, and unknown-
Thy mercies measured by thy God alone!

Where manly hearts were failing,-where

The throngful street grew foul with death,
O high soul'd martyr!-thou wast there,
Inhaling from the loathsome air,

Poison with every breath.
Yet shrinking not from offices of dread
For the wrung dying, and unconscious dead.

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No. 18.


Was it right,

While my unnumbered brethren toiled and bled,
That I should dream away the entrusted hours
On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart,
With feelings all too delicate for use?


Late President of Western Reserve College.


"He fell a martyr to the interests of his colored brethren. For many months did that mighty man of God apply his discriminating and gigantic mind to the subject of Slavery and

The general history of any one radical reform is the history of all. There is, at first, the deep conviction of right, and devotedness to the truth what-its ever betide, opposed by the scorn, loathing, and hatred of the mass. Then comes open violence beating down, if possible, the firm endurance of men who have foreseen the peril and do not fear to brave it. Then is heard above the clamor the voices of some

few whom the world calls noble, who yet by the world's love are not altogether corrupt. And then peal upon peal arise the shouts of victory after victory by those who, once dispised, are now going on conquering and to conquer. Then high names are given to martyrs; and men believing them to be God-sent, and therefore inimitable, sit down with folded arms while the roar, it may be, of a yet mightier combat is raging around them.

Such was the case when Socrates drank the hemlock; when Jesus was the Word-made-flesh, and was nailed to the cross; when Luther rocked Catholicdom with its array of soulless mummeries and countless heresies, to its foundation; when George Fox shook priestdom in England sorely; and when Sharpe and Wilberforce and Clarkson pleaded for the rights against the powers of men, and gave to the world a most noble proof of Truth's might. And such too, is now the case when Anti-Slavery-that only democracy which our nation has-defying the triple alliance of Love of Power with Love of Gold and Hatred of Man, has kept to the breeze its banner these more than twenty years, bearing it up and down through church aisles and legislative halls, flapping it in the faces of drowsy wealth and rank, and, from beneath it, pouring out defiance and resolve upon the startled ear of oppression.

In that warfare have been many incidents right worthy of the poet's song. And well have some of them been used. I have hastily thrown together such poems upon them as are at hand, with this eulogium-that never in any struggle did more Manly and Christian poetry gush up from the deep fountains of the soul.

remedy: and, when his soul could no longer contain his

holy indignation against the upholders and apologists of this
unrighteous system, he gave veut to his aching heart, and
poured forth his clear thoughts and holy feelings in such deep
and soul-entrancing eloquence, that other men, whom he
would fain in his humble modesty acknowledge his superiors,

sat at his feet and looked up as children to a parent."—Cor-
respondent of the Liberator,' 16th of 11th mo. 1833.
Thou hast fallen in thine armor,

Thou martyr of the Lord!
With thy last breath crying-« Onward !”
And thy hand upon the sword.
The haughty heart derideth,

And the sinful lip reviles,
But the blessing of the perishing
Around thy pillow smiles!

When to our cup of trembling

The added drop is given,
And the long suspended thunder

Falls terribly from Heaven,-
When a new and fearful freedom

Is proffer'd of the Lord
To the slow consuming Famine-

The Pestilence and Sword!—

When the refuges of Falsehood

Shall be swept away in wrath,
And the temple shall be shaken

With its idol to the earth,-
Shall not thy words of warning
Be all remember'd then?
And thy now unheeded message
Barn in the hearts of men?

Oppression's hand may scatter
Its nettles on thy tomb,
And even Christian bosoms
Deny thy memory room;

For lying lips shall torture

Thy mercy into crime, And the slanderer shall flourish As the bay-tree for a time.

But, where the South-wind lingers
On Carolina's pines,
Or, falls the careless sunbeam

Down Georgia's golden mines,-
Where now beneath his burthen
The toiling slave is driven,-
Where now a tyrant's mockery
Is offer'd unto Heaven,-

Where Mammon hath its alters
Wet o'er with human blood,
And Pride and Lust debases
The workmanship of God-
There shall thy praise be spoken,
Redeem'd from Falsehood's ban,
When the fetters shall be broken,
And the slave shall be a man!

Joy to thy spirit, brother!

A thousand hearts are warm

A thousand kindred bosoms
Are baring to the storm.
What though red-handed Violence
With secret Fraud combine,
The wall of fire is round us-
Our Present Help was thine!

Lo-the waking up of nations,

From Slavery's fatal sleepThe murmur of a UniverseDeep calling unto Deep! Joy to thy spirit, brother!

On every wind of Heaven The onward cheer and summons Of FEEEDOM'S SOUL is given!

Glory to God for ever!

Beyond the despot's will The soul of Freedom liveth Imperishable still.

The words which thou hast utter'd

Are of that soul a part

And the good seed thou hast scatter'd Is springing from the heart.

In the evil days before us,

And the trials yet to come

In the shadow of the prison,
Or the cruel martyrdom-

We will think of thee, O brother!
And thy sainted name shall be
In the blessing of the captive,
And the anthem of the free.



"Living, I shall assert the right of FREE DISCUSSION ; dying, I shall assert it; and, should I leave no other inheri tance to my children, by the blessing of God I will leave them the inheritance of FREE PRINCIPLES, and the example of a manly and independent defence of them."-Daniel Webster.

Pride of New England!

Soul of our fathers! Shrink we all cravan-like,

When the storm gathers? What though the tempest be Over us lowering, Where's the New Englander Shamefully cowering? Graves green and holy

Around us are lying,Free were the sleepers all, Living and dying!

Back with the Southerner's

Padlocks and scourges! Go-let him fetter down

Ocean's free surges ! Go-let him silence

Winds, clouds, and watersNever New England's own Free sons and daughters! Free as our rivers are

Ocean-ward goingFree as the breezes are Over us blowing.

Up to our altars, then,
Haste we, and summon
Courage and loveliness,

Manhood and woman!
Deep let our pledges be:
Freedom for ever!
Truce with Oppression,
Never, oh! never!
By our own birthright-gift,
Granted of Heaven-
Freedom for heart and lip,
Be the pledge given !

If we have whisper'd truth,
Whisper no longer;
Speak as the tempest does,
Sterner and stronger;
Still be the tones of truth
Louder and firmer,
Startling the haughty South
With the deep murmur;
God and our charter's right,
Freedom for ever!
Truce with Oppression,

Never, oh! never!



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 PROCEEDINGS, and adding by their presence to the impres sive character 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 task'd and plunder'd 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

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Of those high words of truth which search and burn In warning and rebuke.

Feed fat, ye locusts, feed!

And, in your tassel'd 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 stretch'd 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 th' 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


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.

TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS SHIPLEY. President of the Pennsylvania Abolition Society, who died on the 17th of the 9th month, 1836, a devoted Christian and Philanthropist.


Gone to thy Heavenly Father's rest!
The flowers of Eden round thee blowing,
And on thine ear the murmurs blest

Of Shiloah's waters softly flowing!
Beneath that Tree of Life which gives
To all the earth its healing leaves !
In the white robe of angels clad!

And wandering by that sacred river,
Whose streams of holiness make glad
The city of our God for ever!

Gentlest of spirits!-not for thee

Our tears are shed-our sighs are given: Why mourn to know thou art a free

Partaker of the joys of Heaven?
Finish'd thy work, and kept thy faith
In Christian firmness unto death;
And beautiful as sky and earth,

When Autumn's sun is downward going,
The blessed memory of thy worth
Around thy place of slumber glowing!

But woe for us! who linger still

With feebler strength and hearts less lowly, And minds less steadfast to the will

Of Him whose every work is holy.
For not like thine, is crucified
The spirit of our human pride;
And at the bondman's tale of woe,

And for the outcast and forsaken,
Not warm like thine, but cold and slow,
Our weaker sympathies awaken.

Darkly upon our struggling way

The storm of human hate is sweeping; Hunted and branded, and a prey,

Our watch amidst the darkness keeping! Oh! for that hidden strength which can Nerve unto death the inner man! Oh! for thy spirit, tried and true,

And constant in the hour of trial, Prepared to suffer, or to do,

In meekness and in self-denial.

Oh! for that spirit, meek and mild, Derided, spurned, yet uncomplainingBy man deserted and reviled,

Yet faithful to its trust remaining. Still prompt and resolute to save From scourge and chain the hunted slave! Unwavering in the Truth's defence,

Even where the fires of Hate are burning, Th' unquailing eye of innocence

Alone upon th' oppressor turning!

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