VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED. FIELD NOTES. Where is he that loves the woods, Or, when nights are dark and still, In the landscape green and warm In this leafy sylvan scene, Where nature loves no hue but green, We will leave house, man, and street, We will be as once we were,- O'er mushrooms and mullein stalks; Gemmed with dew athwart the meadows, OF CALIFORNIA Grumbling little merchant man Dunning all the idle flowers, As he steereth swiftly over Fields of warm sweet-scented clover. But for him whose cloudy looks From the fair bosom of heaven's queen Him we will seek, and none but him, The wisdom that o'erlooketh sense, The clairvoyance of Innocence. These rich possessions if he own, THE POET. Non est ad astra mollis é terris via.-SENECA. He that would earn the Poet's sacred name, Must write for future as for present ages; Must learn to scorn the wreath of vulgar fame, And bear to see cold critics o'er the pages His burning brain hath wrought, wreak wantonly Their dull and crabbed spite, or trifling mockery. He must not fret his heart that men will turn From the deep wealth his soul hath freely given; He must not marvel that their spirits burn With fire so dim and cold. The God of Heaven Who hung the golden stars in loftiest sky, Hath o'er all spirits set the Poet's heart on high. Star-like and high, his task and glorious sphere Is to shine on in love and light unborrowed, Yet looking down, to hold all nature dear, And where a heart hath deeply joyed or sorrowed, To gather to itself all images And these he loves;-and with all these the heart Of frail humanity, which like a tremulous harp Hung in the winds, not oft from storms apart, Sobs or rejoices; and when tempests sharp Sweep the tense strings, a "sweet sad music" hears, Where others list no voice, nor heed the dropping tears. Who scorns the Poet's art, deserves the scorn Which he would heap on others' heads; that man Knows not the sacred gift and calling born Within the Poet's soul when life began Knows not that he must speak, and not for fame, But that his heart would wither else within its flame. Time's wreaths await him: far in future ages, Twined in their amaranth beauty they are shining, And blessings rained upon his fragrant pages, And tears from kindred hearts, quenching re pining With a warm sympathy, and smiles of joy Of mind, and heart and passion, and to breathe life Embalm a sacred life which Time cannot destroy. through these : And in this life, burning through all his words, And glancing back so strangely on man's soul The image of himself, the bard records The power which lifts all nature, till the whole Swims in the spirit of beauty, and the breath Of earthly things is murmuring life untouched by death. Thus hovering, bee-winged, over every flower, And gathering all the nectar from its blossom, And e'en midst broken hearts, in grief's dark hour, Stealing a sweetness from the poison bosom, He garners up the honey of his thought, And yields unto the world what'er his soul hath wrought. His is the task to clothe the dull and common He may not stoop to pander to the herd Of fickle tastes and morbid appetites; He hath upon his lips a holy word, And he must heed not if it cheers or blights, So it be Truth, and the deep earnest fire Of no dull earthward thought, nor any base desire, His path is through all nature like the sun; From world to world, like a recording spirit; And with all shapes and hues his heart is one; And if a bird but sing, his ear must hear it, And the coarse, scentless flower is as a brother, And the green turf the gentle bosom of a mother. THE OCEAN. "In a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, Tell me, brother, what are we ?- Of Deity! Half afloat and half on land, Such are we. Wanting love and holiness Once, 'twas in our infancy, Gentle lips that bade us look Where we saw the waters swell Then our home was near the sea; Now we've wandered from the shore, Grant me courage, Holy One, BEAUTY. Men talk of Beauty-of the earth and sky, And it is well within the soul to cherish Wander amid the sweets the world hath given; • "There is a path which no fowl knoweth, and which the vulture's eye hath not seen."-JOB Xxviii. 7. THE ARTIST. He breathed the air of realms enchanted, That bore us flowers for use too bright, Unless it were to stay some wandering spirit's flight. With us he lived a common life, And wore a plain familiar name, Yet bore a pulse within, the world could never tame. Their wealth of light around him spread, So sweetly floating o'er his head None knew at what rich feast the favoured guest was fed. They could not guess or reason why He chose the ways of poverty; But scorned the holy mystery That brooded o'er his thoughts and gave him power to see. But all unveiled the world of Sense An inner meaning had for him, And Beauty loved in innocence, Not sought in passion or in whim, Within a soul so pure could ne'er grow dull and dim. And in this vision did he toil, And in this Beauty lived and died.- By no rich tillage sanctified; In olden times he might have been his country's pride. And yet may be-though he hath gone For spirits of so fine a mould Lose not the glory they have won; Their memory turns not pale and cold While Love lives on, the lovely never can grow old. FIRST TRUTHS. They come to me at night, but not in dreams, Just at the turning moment ere mine eyes They glide into my soul. Entranced in prayer, I gaze upon the vision shining there, And bless the Father for these transient beams. THE PROPHET UNVEILED. Kindly he did receive us where he dwelt The self-same power, the influence mild and grand, I listened and I looked, but could not find Drinking in truth and beauty. Yet there was that And once again within the lighted hall, DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL. From the Spanish. BY JAMES T. FIELDS. Underneath the sod, low lying, dark and drear, TO LITTLE MARY. The following beautiful lines were addressed to a little girl-an only child-in this city, who, in her sleep, repeated the passage she was accustomed nightly to utter before closing her eyes. "I konw that the angels are whispering to thee." Like that phenomenon of sleep, A dream within a dream! And pure the thoughts that memory brings, The butterfly has closed its wings, Upon a lily flower! "God bless me—make me a good girl.”—Amen. Not such the dream by slumber thrown, When grief's rough swell is o'er; The ebb of pain, its after moan! The surge upon the shore! Thy prayer is but the echoing Of waking peace and love, The rustling of the Spirit's wing! The cooing of its dove! "God bless me-make me a good girl.”—Amen. The roses of the Persian field, With all their wealth of bloom, Are crush'd, though thousands may but yield A drop of rich perfume; And thus, the heart with feeling rife, Is crushed, alas! by care: Yet, blest, if suffering wring from life, Its other drop-of prayer. "God bless me―make me a good girl.”— Amen. Mother! sweet mother! thou hast taught The world has blown away- Dropp'd jewels of thy spirit's mine, Sleep scatters o'er her heart! "God bless me-make me a good girl.”—Amen. VOICES OF THE TRUE HEARTED. No. 5. THE SLAVE MARKET AT WASHINGTON. had come to the city in a vessel, and had been seized BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. I find, in a late number of the Albany Patriot, a letter from a gentleman in the city of Washington, addressed to the editor, from which I take the following paragraphs: and imprisoned on suspicion of being a slave. As he happened to have no document to prove his freedom, after having been kept in close confinement in a prison cell for six months, he was in a few days to be sold as a slave, to pay the fees of the jailor! We visited, the next day, a slave holder's estab"This year, over five thousand slaves have already lishment in the city of Washington. It stood somebeen sold in our dens of diabolism, and many more what apart from the dense part of the city, yet in heart strings will be broken before the winter sets in, by full view of the capitol. Its dark, strong walls rose sundering all the ties of life, to meet the demand of hu- in dim contrast with the green beauty of early summan victims in the Louisiana market. In Florida, also, the demand has been increased, by the diabolical law mer-a horror and an abomination--a blot upon the to encourage the armed settlement' of that slavery- fair and pleasant landscape. We looked in upon a cursed territory, and thus increase the political weight group of human beings herded together like cattle of the slave system in the councils of the country. for the market. The young man in attendance in"Scenes have taken place in Washington, this sum-formed us that there were five or six other regular mer, that would make the devil blush through the darkness of the pit, if he had been caught in them. A slave dealers in the city, who, having no prisons of fortnight ago last Tuesday, no less than SIXTY HU- their own, kept their slaves in this establishment, MAN BEINGS were carried right by the capitol yard or in the CITY PRISON. The following advertiseto a slave ship! The men were chained in couples, ment of this infernal market house, I have copied and fastened to a log chain, as it is common in this re- from the Washington Globe and the Intelligencer: gion. The women walked by their side. The little children were carried along in wagons." In the summer of 1840, when in Washington, I took occasion, in company with two friends, to visit the principal slave-trading establishments of the district. In Alexandria, at a great slave prison for merly known as Franklin & Armfield's, there were about fifty slaves. They were enclosed by high, strong walls, with grated iron doors. Among them was a poor woman who had escaped, twelve years before, from slavery, and who had married a free man. She had been hunted out by some of those human blood-hounds, who are in the detestable occupation of slave-catchers, separated from her husband, and, with her child, had been sold to the spec ulators for the New Orleans market. Another wo "CASH PAID FOR NEGROES." "The subscriber wishes to purchase a number of negroes for the Louisiana and Mississippi markets. He Himself or agent, at all times, can be found at his will pay the highest price which the market will justify. JAIL, on Seventh street, the first house south of the market bridge, on the west side. Letters addressed to him will receive the earliest attention. WILLIAM H. WILLIAMS." In the same papers, four other regular dealers in human beings advertised themselves. In addition, George Kephart, of Alexandria, advertised the "copper fastened brig, Isaac Franklin." It was nearly ready to sail with slaves for New Orleans. So much for the national newspaper organs of the whig and democratic parties! What must be the state of parties which can acknowledge such papers as their mouth pieces. man, whose looks and manner were expressive of deep anguish, had, with her nine children, been sold away from her husband-an everlasting separation! But her sorrows had but just begun. Long ere this, she and her children have probably been re-sold, On the wall of the slave dealer's office were susscattered and divided, and are now toiling in hope-pended some low and disgraceful pictures and caricaless bereavement, or buried like brutes, without a tures, in which the abolitionists and blacks were tear or Christian rite, on the banks of the Missis-represented, and in which Daniel O'Connell and John sippi. Q. Adams held a prominent position, as objects for the obscene jokes and witticism of the scoundrel traffickers. For one, I regard it as an honorable testimony to the faithfulness and heroism of these great and good men, in their advocacy of human freedom. At the Alexandria public jail was a poor lad who The time is, I trust, not far distant, when those very From this horrible MARKET HOUSE of HUMAN FLESH, we were informed that from fifteen hundred to two thousand slaves are sometimes sent to the South in a single year. |