Hear ye not the voice of anguish,
In our own — our native land?
Brethren, doom'd in chains to languish,
Lift to heaven the fetter'd hand;
And despairing,
Death, to end their grief, demand.

Let us raise our supplication,
For the scourg'd, the suff'ring slave —
All whose life is desolation,
All whose hope is in the grave;
God of Mercy!
From thy throne, Oh! hear and save.

Those in bonds we would remember;
Lord! our hands with theirs are bound!
With each helpless, suff'ring member,
Let our sympathies be found,

Hear us, Father! while we cry,
Pleading for an injur'd race;
Make the bolts asunder fly,
By thine own resistless grace.

Let the captives all go free,
Let th' oppressor cease to reign,
And the arm of tyranny,
Never more be rais'd again.

Crush the system in the dust,
Ere another year be past;
Ev'ry chain and fetter burst,
Which have been around them cast.

Then will shrieks be turn'd to praise,
As the gory whip departs,
And the ransom'd daily raise
Songs of joy from grateful hearts.

O Lord! whose forming hand one blood
To all the tribes and nations gave,
And giv'st to all their daily food,
Look down in pity on the slave!

Fetters and chains and stripes remove,
Deliv'rance to the captives give;
And pour the tide of light and love
Upon their souls, and bid them live.

Oh! kindle in our hearts a flame
Of zeal, thy holy will to do;
And bid each one, who loves thy name,
Love all his bleeding brethren too.

Through all thy temples, let the stain
Of prejudice each bosom flee;

The pledge of Friendship! it is still divine,
Though watery floods have quenched its burning wine;
Whatever vase the sacred drops may hold,
The gourd, the shell, the cup of beaten gold,
Around its brim the hand of Nature throws
A garland sweeter than the banquet's rose.
Bright are the blushes of the vine-wreathed bowl.
Warm with the sunshine of Anacreon's soul,
But dearer memories gild the tasteless wave
That fainting Sidney perished as he gave.
'Tis the heart's current lends the cup its glow,

Pray on — pray on; by pray'r are done
The greatest wonders, vict'ries won;
Pray on — pray on; and never cease,
Pray'r is our armor — brings us peace.

Pray on — pray on; and weary not,
Let not our refuge be forggot;
God is our refuge, sure, and blest,
We lean upon our Father's breast.

I.

However sad man's lot,
Despair should enter not
The suffering heart of man.
God by one single stroke
Can heal the heart he broke,
So carrying out his plan.

For no man sighs in vain:
The humblest creature's pain
Is known to God on high.
He hears the horse's neigh;
He hears his red-breasts pray;
He hears his throstles sigh.

He hears his violets plead,
And on the thirsty mead

So dear my Lucio is to me,
So well our minds and tempers blend,
That seasons may for ever flee,
And ne'er divide me from my friend;
But let the favour'd boy forbear
To tempt with love my only fair.

O Lycon! born when every Muse,
When every Grace, benignant smiled,
With all a parent's breast could choose
To bless her loved, her only child;
'Tis thine, so richly graced, to prove
More noble cares than cares of love.

Together we from early youth
Have trod the flowery tracks of time,
Together mused in search of truth,

FOR A TEMPERANCE DINNER TO WHICH LADIES WERE INVITED (NEW YORK MERCANTILE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION, NOVEMBER , 1842

A health to dear woman! She bids us untwine,
From the cup it encircles, the fast-clinging vine;
But her cheek in its crystal with pleasure will glow,
And mirror its bloom in the bright wave below.

A health to sweet woman! The days are no more
When she watched for her lord till the revel was o'er,
And smoothed the white pillow, and blushed when he came,
As she pressed her cold lips on his forehead of flame.

An Luinneag: A bhanarach dhonn a' chruidh,
Chaoin a' chruidh, dhonn a' chruidh,
Cailin deas donn a' chruidh,
Cuachag an fhasaich.

A bhanarach mhiogach,
'S e do ghaol thug fo chis mi,
'S math thig lamhainnean sioda
Air do mhin-bhasan bana.

'S mor bu bhinne bhith 'd eisdeachd
'N am bhith bleoghan na spreidhe
Na 'n smeorach sa' Cheitein
'M barr geig ann am fas-choill.

Nuair a sheinneadh tu coilleag
A' leigeil mairt ann an coillidh,
Thigeadh eunlaith gach doire
Dh' eisdeachd coireal do mhanrain.

Surely the people is grass, now do they fade like a blossom;
Surely the people is slain — it is slain with a slaughter unending.

Lo! when the voice of their God thunders about them forever,
This is a people that moves not, a people that stirs not nor trembles;

Nor do they rise like a lion, nor like a young lion waken,
Nor at the voice do they tremble, never a man of them stirreth.

Nay, and the hearts of the people thrill not with gladness together,
When from the eastward and westward, calling from ocean to ocean,