So shalt thou deftly raise
The market-price of human flesh: and while
On thee, the pamper'd guest, the planters smile,
Thy church shall praise.
Grave reverend men shall tell
From northern pulpits how Thy work was blest,
While in that vile South Sodom, first and best
Thy poor disciples sell.
Oh shame! The Moslem thrall,
Who with his master to the Prophet kneels,
While turning to the sacred Kebla, feels
His fetters break and fall.
Cheers for the turban’d Bey
Of robber-peopled Tunis ! he hath torn
The dark slave-dungeon open, and hath borne
Their inmates into day.
But our poor slave in vain
Turns to the Christian shrine his aching eyes —
Its rites will only swell his market-price,
And rivet on his chain.
God of all right! how long
Shall priestly robbers at thine altar stand,
Lifting in prayer to thee the bloody hand
And haughty brow of wrong?
Oh! from the fields of cane,
From the low rice-swamps, from the trader's cell,
From the black slave-ship's foul and loathsome hell,
And coffle's weary chain,
Hoarse, horrible, and strong, Rises to heaven that agonizing cry, Filling the arches of the hollow sky
“ How long! Oh, Lord, how long!”
--Hogg's Weekly Instructor.
CHRISTIAN MOURNERS COMFORTED.
Children of the realm of light,
Wandering through life's stormy night,
In the world's wide desert, strangers,
Onward press 'mid toils and dangers ;
Lift to heaven the drooping eye,
Jesus is for ever nigh.
Captive! in the dungeon low,
Cease that thrilling cry of woe;
What, though sunbeams never dwell
In thy dark and lonely cell,
Rays of glory, beams divine,
On thine inmost soul may shine.
Wanderer ! on the billowy foam,
Borne from kindred, friends, and home ;
What, though on the mighty deep
Gathering tempests round thee sweep,“
Rainbow-hues of light divine,
On the troubled breakers shine.
Mourner! lift thine aching head,
Weep not o'er thine early dead ;
What, though tones to memory dear
Thrill not on thy listening ear,
He whose love abideth ever
Shall forsake and leave thee never.
Sufferer! on thy couch of woe, Where no vernal breezes blow, What, though now the Sabbath bell Sound to thee like parting knell, Though thy willing feet no more, Tread the paths so loved before.
What though night's all-covering wing,
Thee no healing slumber bring,
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