energetic expression as the
poet apostrophizes the Deity in behalf of the down-trodden:

Of all my Father's herds and flocks,
I love the Ox--the large-eyed Ox!
I think no Christian man would wrong
The Ox--so patient, calm, and strong!

How huge his strength! and yet, with flowers
A child can lead this Ox of ours;
And yoke his ponderous neck, with cords
Made only of the gentlest words.

By fruitful Nile the Ox was Lord;
By Jordan's stream his blood was poured;
In every age--with every clan--
He loves, he serves, he dies for MAN!

And, through the long, long years of God,
Since labouring ADAM delved the sod,
I hear no human voice that mocks
The _hue_ which God hath given His Ox!

While burdening toils bow down his back,
Who asks if he be _white_ or _black?_
And when his generous blood is shed,
Who shall deny its common _red?_

"Ye shall not muzzle"--God hath sworn--
"The Ox, that treadeth out the corn!"
I think no Christian law ordains
That _Ox_ or _Man_ should toil in chains.

So, haply, for an Ox I pray.
That kneels and toils for us this day;
A huge, calm, patient, large-eyed Ox,
Black-skinned, among our herds and flocks.

So long, O righteous Lord! so long
Bowed down, and yet so brave and strong--
I think no Christian, just and true,
Can spurn this poor Ox for his _hue!_

I know not why he shall not toil,
Black-skinned, upon our broad, free soil;
And lift aloft his dusky frame,
Unbranded by a bondman's name!

And struggling still, for nobler goal,
With wakening will and soaring soul,
I know not why his great free strength
May not be our best wealth at length:

That strength which, in the limbs of _slaves_--
Like Egypt's--only piles up graves!
But in the hands of _freemen_ now
May build up states, by axe and plough!--

And rear up souls, as purely white
As angels, clothed with heavenly light;
And yield forth life-blood, richly red
As patriot hearts have ever shed.

God help us! we are veiled within--
Or white or black--with shrouds of skin;
And, at the last, we all shall crave
Small difference in the breadth of grave!

But--when the grass grows, green and calm,
And smells above our dust, like balm--
I think our rest will sweeter be,
If over us the Ox be--_free!_

HERE SHE GOES, AND THERE SHE GOES.

JAMES NACK.

Two Yankee wags, one summer day,
Stopped