I.——TO MR. J. P——N, IN THE STATE OF MISSOURI, 1841.

The dolorous cry, from far was heard
How groaned poor Afric's sable sons.
Our hearts with pity moved, we feared
Much evil by the monster done.
Ask ye his name? 'Tis slavery dire,
So big with crime, so red with gore.

Could Christians feel his dreadful ire
Oh how they'd wish he was no more.
Would they not send to Heaven this prayer?
Hear thou on high, O God of love;
Ere time be long thine arm make bare.
Rend him with judgment from above;
Down from his seat hurl him to dwell.

Built round with walls of fire in hell.
Raise thy strong arm and fix him deep.
Add this: in anguish make him weep.
Now hell, make room in thy domains,
This dreadful foe will soon no more
Firm bind poor slaves in galling chains,
Or lash their backs till flows their gore.
Remorseless still, he cares not for their fate,
Doom speedy, therefore, should on him await.

II.—TO MY ELDEST SON, IN SEVERE SICKNESS.

Thou sweetest, loveliest babe—my first born son;
I low great has been thy sufferings from disease!
Oh, my poor soul doth, ever and anon,
Make prayer to God, that he would give thee ease.

Ah, dearest babe! from this thy case, I read
Sad, yet true lessons of imputed sin.
Can we conceive that thou indeed art freed—
O, thought most strange—from guilt by man brought in?

Would we but read, mark, learn, and still digest
His word, who gave at first to man his being,
Error would vanish, and His will expressed,
Respecting this, we could not fail from seeing.

Doubt would remove, and so would murmur, too;
Justice would still be seen most clearly such;
Unquestionable, this fact would stand to view,
No one is free from Sin's defiling touch!

I see thy pale, emaciated face,
Once decked with bloom of health's most ruddy glow!
Regard for man would lead me still to trace—
Bent on the truth—whence all these evils flow.

Rich in possession of the Book Divine,
All I desire is that the Lord would give
Needful instruction, while I scan the line—
The line of truth, on which my soul must live.

For there I read—though Death hath ever reigned
O'er every one of Adam's sinful race—
Righteousness of Christ, by Faith unfeigned,
Delivers from its sting: all of free Grace!

Cease then, my soul, to murmur or complain,
And place thy trust upon the God of Love.
Now look to him who lose from th' grave again,
And reascended to the realms above.

Dread not the stroke, though great may be the pain,
And hard to bear, for it will work thy gain!

III.—A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN DENT.
[Who lost his life by an accident in raising a barn.]

1843.

A task so painful, yet so justly due
To thee, my dear, my much respected Brother,
Rightly devolves on me whose heart beats true
In Zion's cause; yet, would it were another!

But as it is, my Muse, though rude, shall sing—
Used as she is to such a mournful strain—
That I may cause true sympathy to spring
Ere long, for those who feel for thee most pain.

'Tis scarce a week since thou, in manhood's prime,
Of things quite dear to both hadst spoke with me!
'Tis now my lot to tell, in mournful rhyme,
How short a space there was 'twixt Death and thee.

Ere thou wert well aware the fatal dart
Met thee amongst thy fellows, shot by Death;
Ev'n now I feel that dread from friends to part
Methinks thou felt, though thou wast strong in faith.

O, that I could but paint in language strong,
Regarding truth, thy sufferings so severe;
Yes, then I'd sing, in pure and holy song,
Of Him whose presence cheered thee much while here.

"Fear not," saith God, to all his people dear;
Just then thy heart responded, "Fear ye not!"
O, what a precious truth our hearts to cheer!
How sure to reconcile us to our lot.

Now is the time to glorify our God,
Depending on His gracious arm to keep
Each footstep treading in the narrow road.
Nor let us murmur, though constrained to weep
The while o'er those who now in Jesus sleep.