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To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. No: dear as freedom is, and in my hearts Just estimation prized above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave And wear the bonds, than fasten them to him. We have no slaves at home—then why abroad? And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free; They touch our country, and their shackles fall. 'That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, And let it circulate through every vein Of all your empire; that, where Britain's power. Is felt, mankind may feel her merey to.



The grave is not a place of rest,
As unbelievers teach,

Where grief can never win a tear,
Nor sorrow ever reach.

The eye that shed the tear is closed,

The heaving breast is cold;
But that which suffers and enjoys,

No narrow grave can bold.

The mouldering earth and hungry worm

The dust they lent may claim;
But the enduring spirit lives

Eternally the same.

Caroline Fry.



The path of sorrow, and that path alone,

Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown;

No traveller ever reached that blest abode,

Who found not thorns and briers on his road.

For he, who knew what human hearts would prove,.

How slow to learn the dictates of his love;

That, hard by nature, and of stubborn will,

A life of ease would make them harder still;


In pity to the souls his grace designed,
To rescue from the ruins of mankind,
Called for a cloud to darken all their years,
And said, ' Go spend them in the vale of tears!'
O balmy gales of soul-reviving air!
O salutary streams that murmur there!
These flowing from the fount of grace above,
Those breathed from lips of everlasting love.
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys,
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys,
An envious world will interpose its frown
To mar delights superior to its own;
And many a pang experienced still within,
Reminds them of their hated inmate, sin;
But ills of every shape and every name,
Transformed to blessings, miss their cruel aim;
And every moment's calm that soothes the breast,
Is given in earnest of eternal rest.



The lark has sung his carol in the sky;

The bees have hummed their noou-tide lullaby;

Still ia the vale the village-bells ring round,

Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound;

For now the caudle-cup is circling there,

Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,

And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire

The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.

A few short years—and then these sounds shall hail The day again, and gladness fill the vale; So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, Eager to run the race his fathers ran. Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin; The ale, now brewed, in floods of amber shine: And basking in the chimney's ample blaze, Mid many a tale told of his boyish days, The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled,

Twas on these knees he sat so oft and smiled.'

And soon again shall music swell the breeze;
Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees
Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung,
And violets scattered round; and old and young,
In every cottage-porch with garlands green,
Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene;
"bile, her dark eyes declining, by his side
Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride.

And once, alas! nor in a distant bow,
Another voice shall come from yonder tower;
When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen,
And weeping's heard where only joy has been;
When by his children borne, and from his door
Slowly departing to return no more,
He rests in holy earth with them that went before.

And such is human life ;—so gliding on,
It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone 1
Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,
As full methinks of wild and wondrous change, .'
As any that the wandering tribes require,
Stretched in the desert round their evening-fire;
As any sung of old in hall or bower
To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching-hour!



Oh! for a closer walk with God,
A calm and heavenly frame,

A light, to shine upon the road,
That leads me to the Lamb;

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