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Then wept the warrior chief, and bade

To shred his locks away;
And, one by one, each heavy braid

Before the victor lay.
Thick were the platted locks, and long,

And closely hidden there
Shone many a wedge of gold among

The dark and crisped hair.

“Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold,

Long kept for sorest need;
Take it—thou askest sums untold,

And say that I am freed.
Take it-my wife, the long, long day

Weeps by the cocoa tree, -
And my young children leave their play,

And ask in vain for me."

“I take thy gold—but I have made

Thy fetters fast and strong,
And ween that by the cocoa shade

Thy wife will wait thee long."
Strong was the agony that shook

The captive's frame to hear,
And the proud meaning of his look

Was changed to mortal fear.

His heart was broken-crazed his brain

At once his eye grew wild;
He struggled fiercely with his chain,

Whispered, and wept, and smiled;
Yet wore not long those fatal bands,

And once at shut of day,
They drew him forth upon the sands,

The foul hyena's prey.

This poem is one of the most beautiful and pathetic ever written by an American bard. Its simplicity is striking, yet it is one of its beauties. The last verse is not often surpassed—especially this line:

Whispered, and wept, and smiled.”

In this little poem the poet preaches a more eloquent anti-slavery sermon, than was ever delivered from the pulpit—a more touching oration against human chat telism, than was ever pronounced from the platform.

There are so many exquisite passages in the poems of Bryant, that in quoting them one knows not when or where to stop. His great poems—Thanatopsis, The Prairies, etc., etc., are so well known, that we will not extract from thein here, but will close the sketch with one of his most finished, perfect pieces. It is well known, but will bear reading again and again.

TO A WATERFOWL.
Whither midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way!

Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean side ?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, –
The desert and illimitable air, —

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,

Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end; Soon shall thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,

Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou’rt gone; the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

THEODORE PARKER.

A few miles out of Boston, just far enough to escape the dust and confusion of the town, there is a dwelling which would attract the eye of a genuine lover of nature, and natural beauty. It is not characterized by splendor and ostentation, for no pompous cotton merchant or retired rumseller occupies it. It is plain and yet beautiful, unpretentious and yet spacious. It is surrounded by shrubs, and trees, and flowers of every hue, and the most delightful fragrance in the summer time. Should you chance some early May morning to wander past: this pleasant spot, very likely in the garden you will see a man in a plain smock frock, hard at work. He is rather short in stature, rather slender in frame, and if you catch a glance of his eye, you will at once entertain a serious doubt if the man be by profession a gardener. Let him lift the wide straw hat from his perspiring brow to catch a cool breeze, and you know at once that he is no common cultivator of the soil. Theodore Parker is before you. The beautiful dwelling is his, and his own hands have contributed to the loveliness which surrounds it.

A wrong

Theodore Parker is one of the noblest

men this

age can boast. No sham ever yet could find a lodgment in his brain or heart. He abhors the false, and loves the true and manly. Not a particle of vulgar gentility, not a grain of aristocratic feeling was ever in him, or ever can get into him. He esteems a man just according to his moral and intellectual worth, for what he does, or aims to do. He loves men because they are men; not because they are white, or rich, or can trace their genealogy back five hundred years. An outrage upon the rights of a poor negro in the streets of Boston, stirs the blood as quickly in his heart, as if it had been committed upon the person of the governor of the commonwealth. perpetrated upon a wretched drunkard's wife or child, awakes the thunder of his eloquence, when, if inflicted upon the strong or rich, he would have kept silent. It is this gigantic manhood in Theodore Parker which forces us to love and admire him. In spite of his infidelity, which so often startles and shocks us, we sit down involuntarily at his feet to listen to his great words, his courageous utterances against the most heartless and cruel oppression. We receive not one word of his infidelity. To us, Christ is not merely the greatest man that ever lived, but is vastly more; to us, the bible is not a book crammed with errors-the miracles exaggerations; and yet, to many of those who would crucify Mr.

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