t world of bliss,
If, wandering through each radiant one,
We failed to find the loved of this!

If there no more the ties should twine,
Which Death's cold hand alone can sever,
Ah! then those stars in mockery shine,
More hateful as they shine forever!

It cannot be--each hope and fear,
That lights the eye or clouds the brow,
Proclaims there is a happier sphere
Than this bleak world that holds us now!

There is a voice which sorrow hears,
When heaviest weighs life's galling chain,
'Tis heaven that whispers, "dry thy tears,
The pure in heart shall meet again."

The Poor Little Slave.

FROM "THE CHARTER OAK."

O pity the poor little slave,
Who labors hard through all the day--
And has no one,
When day is done,
To teach his youthful heart to pray.

No words of love--no fond embrace--
No smiles from parents kind and dear;
No tears are shed
Around his bed,
When fevers rage, and death is near.

None feel for him when heavy chains
Are fastened to his tender limb;
No pitying eyes,
No sympathies,
No prayers are raised to heaven for him.

Yes I will pity the poor slave,
And pray that he may soon be free;
That he at last,
When days are past,
In heaven may have his liberty.

THE BEREAVED MOTHER.

Words by Jesse Hutchinson. Air, "Kathleen O'Moore."

[Music]

Oh deep was the anguish of the slave mother's heart,
When called from her darling for ever to part;
So grieved that lone mother, that heart broken mother,
In sorrow and woe.

The lash of the master her deep sorrows mock,
While the child of her bosom is sold on the block;
Yet loud shrieked that mother, poor heart broken mother,
In sorrow and woe.

The babe in return, for its fond mother cries,
While the sound of their wailings together arise;
They shriek for each other, the child and the mother,
In sorrow and woe.

The harsh auctioneer to sympathy cold,
Tears the babe from its mother and sells it for gold;
While the infant and mother, loud shriek for each other,
In sorrow and woe.

At last came the parting of mother and child,
Her brain reeled with madness, that mother was wild;
Then the lash could not smother the shrieks of that mother,
Of sorrow and woe.

The child was borne off to a far distant clime,
While the mother was left in anguish to pine;
But reason departed, and she sank broken hearted,
In