Not for self alone, ye battle,

Though your homes invaded be; Principle's the key of magic

That shall set the prisoner free! "Tis for down-crushed mortals writhing Under Slavery's galling chains; Kansas' bleeding sons call on ye To proclaim that freedom reigns!

Not for this our fathers sought ye,
Virgin woodlands, rivers{wide!
Not in vain they bled, and dying,
Consecrated freedom's bride;

List-the echo of their voices

Murmurs with their parting breath, "No surrender, no surrender—

Give us Liberty or Death!"

ON SEEING THE "HEAD OF CHRIST,”

Painted by Guido.

Guido, what seraph blest
Fanned thy soul with its wing,

And pictured on thy heart

That face divine, serene?

Serene, 'mid agony that has no name;
Divine, borne up with love's undying flame!

Immortal sure thou art!
Thy soul had child-like grown,

Ere thou wert set apart

And placed upon a throne,

A throne, where holy thoughts could access gain,
Where Jesus Christ should be thy guest and reign.

Oh! one would almost bow

To thee, who thus could paint

The passions of the soul;

And feel that naught could taint

One, in whose bosom such bright visions came,

Whose spirit eye scanned earth's and heaven's domain!

A holy awe doth steal
Silently in my heart,

When on that face I gaze,

And wonder where thou art;

If, when thou drew thy last, faint, fleeting breath, Those eyes beamed on thee, with that look in death!

But thou hast left behind,

The glory of the skies;

And ages yet to come

Shall gaze into those eyes,

And in their depths, discern a world of love,
Where sorrow, faith, submission point above!

Thine is the love I prize, sweet friend,
More than the wealth of Ind:-
:-
The love that shields, endures, holds fast;
Not changed by every wind.

Then, blessings on thy fair, young head!
May pain and sorrow flee

Far from thy steps!-but, weal or woe,
Still, still, remember me!

No costly gift have I, beloved,

To offer thee, this day;

But we'll gather perfume from love's flower,
As we journey on life's way.

66

WRITTEN AFTER READING UNCLE TOM'S CABIN."

And you, mothers of America, I beseech you, pity the mother, who has all your affection, and not one legal right, to protect, guide, or educate the child of her bosom! MRS. H. B. STOWE.

Mother, with thy fair child sleeping

On its hallowed place of rest,

Pray for her, whose little jewel

Rude hands plucked from off her breast!
It is thine-I know it truly:

'Twas a gift from God above,

Consecrated by the giver

Incense thine-a mother's love!

Clasp him close, and gaze upon him:
Ask thy heart, if mortal man
Has a right to tear him from thee,
And o'erthrow God's wondrous plan!
With a love as deep, as tender,

The slave-mother clasps her child; Calls on earth and Heaven to shield her, Hurrying through the pathless wild!

Hark! the whoop and yell of demons; Blood-hounds still upon the track ;—

All unheeding the wild anguish

Of that heart upon the rack! By thy dying infant's cradle,

Thou canst know but a small part Of the torture, that, each hour,

Rends the poor slave-mother's heart.

For thy tears can fall upon him,

In his little coffin, still;

"Gone to God," thy heart can whisper, Subject not to man's brute will !"

By the sacred love you bear him,
Cry aloud, and stretch your hand.
Rest not, 'till true freedom's banner
Wipes the plague-spot from this land!

Mothers! ye have power to sunder

All these cursed chains, that bind Afric's poor, degraded daughters— Slaves in body, slaves in mind ! Hold ye not the key of Heaven? Prayer's omnipotent to save. E'en upon the surging billow,

Plant your feet firm on the wave!