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The form still mark'd with many a stain,-
Brand of the soil, the scourge, the chain;
The serf of Afric's fiery ground;
The slave by Indian suns embrown'd;
The weary drudges of the oar,

By the swart Arab's poison'd shore,
The gathering of earth's wildest tract,
On bursts the living cataract!

What strength of man can check its speed?
They come, the Nation of the Freed;
Who leads their march? Beneath His wheel
Back rolls the sea, the mountains reel!
Before their tread His trump is blown,
Who speaks in thunder and 'tis done!
King of the dead! O, not in vain,
Was thy long pilgrimage of pain;
O, not in vain arose thy prayer,
When press'd the thorn thy temples bare;
O, not in vain the voice that cried,
To spare thy madden'd homicide!
Even for this hour thy heart's blood stream'd,
They come! the Host of the Redeem'd!-

What flames upon the distant sky? 'Tis not the comet's sanguine dye, 'Tis not the lightning's quivering spire, 'Tis not the sun's ascending fire.

And now, as nearer speeds their march,
Expands the rainbow's mighty arch;
Though there has burst no thunder-cloud,
No flash of death the soil has plough'd,
And still ascends before their gaze,
Arch upon arch, the lovely blaze;
Still as the gorgeous clouds unfold,
Rise towers and domes immortal mould.
Scenes! that the Patriarch's vision'd eye
Beheld, and then rejoic'd to die ;-
That like the altar's burning coal,
Touch'd the pale Prophet's harp with soul;-
That the thron'd Seraphs long to see,
Now given thou slave of slaves to thee!
Whose city this? What potentate
Sits there the King of Time and Fate?
Whom glory covers like a robe,
Whose sceptre shakes the solid globe,
Whom shapes of fire, and splendor guard?
There sits the Man whose face was marr'd,
To whom Archangels bow the knee,-
The Weeper of Gethsemane !

Down in the dust, aye, Israel, kneel;
For now thy wither'd heart can feel!
Aye, let thy wan cheek burn like flame,
There sits thy glory, and thy shame!

SENTIMENTAL AND PATHETIC.

THE PLEASURES OF SENSIBILITY.

H. MORE.

FOR tho' in souls where taste and sense abound,

Pain thro' a thousand avenues can wound,
Yet the same avenues are open still,
To casual blessings as to casual ill.
Nor is the trembling temper more awake,
To ev'ry wound which Misery can make,
Than is the finely fashion'd nerve alive
To ev'ry transport Pleasure has to give,
For tho' when home-felt joys the mind elate,
It mourns in secret for another's fate;
Yet when its own sad griefs invade the
breast,

Abroad, in others blessings, see it blest!
E'en the soft sorrow of remember'd wo
A not unpleasing sadness may bestow.

Where the best passions of the mortal breast? Where the warm blessing when another's blest?

Where the soft lenitives of others' pain, The social sympathy, the sense humane? The sigh of rapture, and the tear of joy, Anguish that charms, and transports that destroy?

For tender Sorrow has her pleasures too; Pleasures which prosp'rous Dulness never

knew.

She never knew, in all her coarser bliss,
The sacred rapture of a pain like this!
Nor think the cautious only are the just;
Who never was deceiv'd I would not trust.
Then take, ye happy vulgar! take your part
Of sordid joy, which never touch'd the heart,
Benevolence, which seldom stays to choose,
Lest pausing Prudence teach her to refuse ;
Friendship which, once determin'd, never

swerves,

Let not the vulgar read this pensive strain; Their jests the tender anguish would profane: Weighs ere it trusts, but weighs not ere it Yet these some deem the happiest of their kind,

Whose low enjoyments never reach'd the mind;

Who ne'er a pain but for themselves have known,

Nor ever felt a sorrow but their own; Who call romantic every finer thought Conceiv'd by pity, or by friendship wrought, Ah! wherefore happy where's the kindred mind?

Where the large soul that takes in human kind?

serves;

And soft-eyed Pity and Forgiveness bland,
And melting Charity with open hand;
And artless Love, believing and believ'd.
And gen'rous Confidence which ne'er de-
ceiv'd;

And Mercy stretching out ere Want can speak,

To wipe the tear from pale Affliction's cheek These ye have never known!-then take

your part

Of sordid joy, which never touch'd the heart.

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