The thoughtful Planter said,
Then looked upon the Slaver's gold,
And then upon the maid.

His heart within him was at strife,
With such accursed gains;
For he knew whose passions gave her life,
Whose blood ran in her veins.

But the voice of nature was too weak:
He took the glittering gold!
Then pale as death grew the maiden's cheek,
Her hands as icy cold.

The Slaver led her from the door,
He led her by the hand,
To be his slave and paramour
In a far and distant land.

Domestic Bliss.

BY REV. JAMES GREGG.

Domestic bliss; thou fairest flower
That erst in Eden grew,
Dear relic of the happy bower,
Our first grand parents knew!

We hail thee in the rugged soil
Of this waste wilderness,
To cheer our way and cheat our toil,
With gleams of happiness.

In thy mild light we travel on,
And smile at toil and pain;
And think no more of Eden gone,
For Eden won again.

Such, Emily, the bliss, the joy
By Heaven bestowed on you;
A husband kind, a lovely boy,
A father fond and true.

Religion adds her cheering beams,
And sanctifies these ties;
And sheds o'er all the brighter gleams,
She borrows from the skies.

But ah! reflect; are _all_ thus blest?
Hath home such charms for _all_?
Can such delights as these invest
Foul slavery's wretched thrall?

Can those be happy in these ties
Who wear her galling chain?
Or taste the blessed charities
That in the household reign?

Can those be blest, whose hope, whose life,
Hang on a tyrant's nod;
To whom nor husband, child, nor wife
Are known--yea, scarcely God?

Whose ties may all be rudely riven,
At avarice' fell behest;
Whose only hope of _home_ is heaven,
The grave their only rest.

Oh! think of those, the poor, th' oppressed,
In your full hour of bliss;
Nor e'er from prayer and effort rest,
While earth bears woe like this.

O PITY THE SLAVE MOTHER.

Words from the Liberator. Air, Araby's Daughter.

[Music]

I pity the slave mother, careworn and weary,
Who sighs as she presses her babe to her breast;
I lament her sad fate, all so hopeless and dreary,
I lament for her woes, and her wrongs unredressed.
O who can imagine her heart's deep emotion,
As she thinks of her children about to be sold;
You may picture the bounds of the rock-girdled ocean,
But the grief of that mother can never be known.

The mildew of slavery has blighted each blossom,
That ever has bloo