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March, 1836.

FATHER, thy gentle chastisement
Falls kindly on my burdened soul;
I see its merciful intent,

To warn me back to thy control; And pray, that, while I kiss the rod, I may find perfect peace with God.

The errors of my heart I know;
I feel my deep infirmities;
For, often, virtuous feelings glow,

And holy purposes arise,

But, like the morning clouds decay, As empty, though as fair, as they.

Forgive the weakness I deplore;

And let thy peace abound in me, That I may trust my heart no more, But wholly cast myself on thee. O, let my Father's strength be mine, And my devoted life be thine.


February, 1843.


THE Pilgrims are launched on the wild winter main, Their bark on the foam madly tossing:

The tempest is high; but its threats they disdain ;
They are fleeing from Tyranny's sceptre and chain;
It is Liberty's sea they are crossing.

Loud rings their cry o'er the stormy wave-
"Freedom! Death or freedom!

Freedom, or ocean our grave!

Borne high on the breath of the soft summer gale,
The slave-ship is proudly careering;

What sights of despair and what voices of wail,
What anguish and madness beneath that fair sail,
To hopeless captivity steering!

Hark! hark! from the black-hold the stifled cry-
"Freedom! Death or freedom!"

Hear how it pierces the sky!

In the darkness and rain of the chill autumn night,
The slave from the cane-field is striding;
Through hunger and hardship he urges his flight;
Nor perils dismay him, nor blood-hounds affright,

By the north star his weary feet guiding.
Help, help for him answer his eager cry-

"Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!"

Tell him that rescue is nigh.

Up, up with your banners to honor the brave!
O'er your forefathers' tombs be they flying!
And hail to the hero, though black and a slave,
Who shrinks from oppression, but fears not the grave,
And throws off his fetters by dying.

Join-join in the shout that he flings on high,
"Freedom! Death or freedom!"

Join 'twas your forefathers' cry!


March, 1829.


How beautiful the feet of those
Who publish peace from Heaven!
How glad the tidings they disclose
From Him to save us given!
Glory to God! Good will to men,
And peace on earth, attend his reign.

The world was dark with woe and strife;
Pain, sin, and death, bore sway;
And souls, ordained to nobler life,
In guilt and bondage lay.

His word went forth-earth's evils cease,
And ransomed spirits rest in peace.

That peace which earth can never give,

And never take away,

Shall conquer time and death, and live
Through heaven's eternal day.

Praise to the Lord, whose boundless grace
Redeems and saves our sinful race.


May, 1842.

THE Follen Church-how beautiful it stands,
Graceful and calm in that sequestered nook!
How doth a blessing from its placid look
Flow o'er the hamlet and its fertile lands!
Fit monument to him who placed it there;
Whose soul all truth, benignity, and grace-
Beamed forth in benedictions, from a face
Where might and sweetness met in union rare.
O light of love, too early quenched in death!-
Yet, as that fane, though crumbled to the ground,
Would still survive, in sacred influence round,
So flows, and shall, from him a quickening breath:
Death to the good man is but life's extension;
Earth mourns his loss; Heaven joys in his ascension.

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