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Now in Death's appalling hour,
When the thunderbolt is nigh,
Spare the victims! Sovereign Power!
Walk in robes of mercy by.

On the wings of earnest prayer

Shall for these our incense rise,—

Wafted to yon altar, there

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THE Hypocrites! how curst are they,-
Their shameless treachery, how deep—
Who boast of mild Religion's sway,
Yet leave their race in chains to weep!

My Country! shall it ever be,

That thou, escaped from Slavery's rod,— Thou, only happy, only free,

Shall barter, too, the price of blood?

Say! shall the offspring of that soil,

Which smokes e'en now with veteran gore,

Be sharers in the cruel spoil,

That desolates the Afric shore?

SONG OF DEBORAH AND BARAK.

"Forbid it, heaven!" each freeman cries, "Forbid it feeling, manhood, shame!" Then haste! avert the sacrifice,

And cleanse thy proud, thy sullied name.

SONG OF DEBORAH AND BARAK.

LORD! when thou went'st in might from Seir,
When thou didst march from Edom's field,
The hoary mountains quaked with fear,
Earth trembled at thy burning shield.

Thy wheels were heard, and ocean fled,
The heavens were scrolled beneath thy feet;

The old foundations shook with dread,

When wrath was gathered round thy seat.

We praise thee, Lord! alone possessed
Of all that's high, or greatly fair;
Though darkness is thy chosen rest,
Yet mercy beams divinely there!

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ARE NOT MY DAYS FEW.

OH MARY, TAKE THIS BRILLIANT GEM.

Он, Mary! take this brilliant gem,

I've brought thee from the Indian mine; I would it were a diadem,

Dear maid! the treasure should be thine.

Sparkling with nature's modest glow,
Unnumbered beauties thou mayst see;

"Tis chaste as Virtue's self, and so
Sweet girl! it doth resemble thee.

ARE NOT MY DAYS FEW?

HAST thou not treasured the amount
All-wise Creator, of my days!
In thy dread councils are not few
The years appointed man?

Soon I shall lay this weary frame

To rest upon its native bed;

This form, the worm's unconscious prey,
Will slumber peacefully.

ARE NOT MY DAYS FEW.

Pleasure, Ambition,—ah, how frail,
Deceiving, will ye then appear;
Inscribed with luring falsehood all,
All, oh, my God! but thee.

Why then should folly's passing dream
The mind's best energies control?
Why should the world's vain pageantry
Allure the soul from heaven?

Why should I sigh when sorrow's cloud,
Gathering, obscures life's little day?
When disappointment withers hope,
Why should I weep?

Teach me, my Maker, earth to prize
As unsubstantial, insincere;

Draw me from time, and bid me soar
To immortality.

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HIS PATH IS THE OCEAN.

HIS PATH IS THE OCEAN, HE MAKETH HIS DWELLING.

His path is the ocean, he maketh his dwelling Where tempests are cradled, and winds rudely

blow;

His joys like the billows he buffets, now swelling, And now like to them sunk forgotten below.

On land with his messmates to share he is willing,
By veterans in wickedness easily led,—
He's fleeced, cast adrift, when is gone the last
shilling,

The sky for his covering, the pavement his bed.

By perils, by watchings, by misery broken,

Of the world he is weary, though few are his years;

Does he sigh for a better?-to him none has spoken Of the clime where for ever are wiped away tears.

In penury now, and in dread of the morrow,
He's friendless, forsaken, and haggard, and

mean;

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