My God! is any hour so sweet, From blush of morn to evening star, As that which calls me to Thy feet,
The hour of prayer?
Blest is that tranquil hour of morn, And blest that hour of solemn eve, When on the wings of prayer upborne,
The world I…
We find the following clever parody on Wordsworth's celebrated "Old Oaken Bucket" in the (old) "Spirit of the Times:" How sweet to the taste is the Irish potato,
As memory awakens a thought of the plant;
Its dark verdant vine-top and beautiful…
The camp has had its day of song;
The sword, the bayonet, the plume,
Have crowded out of song too long
The plow, the anvil, and the loom
Oh! not upon our tented fields
Are freedom's heroes bred alone;
The training of the workshop yields
More…
The night was made for cooling shade,
For silence, and for sleep;
And when I was a child, I laid My hands upon my breast and prayed,
And sank to slumbers deep.
Child-like as then I lie to-night, And watch my lonely cabin light. Each movement of…
The light of Home! how bright it beams!
When evening shades around us fall,
And from the lattice far it gleams,
To love and rest, and comfort call;
When wearied with the toils of day,
The strife for glory, gold or fame,
How sweet to seek the…
Give us the nerves of steel,
And the arm of fearless might,
And the strength of will that is ready still
To battle for the right.
Give us the eye to weep
That honest tear of feeling,
That shuts not down for the world's dread frown,
The genuine…
[The following sweet poem was read by the authoress at the re-opening of Colored Grammar School No. 1, March 12, 1860.—ED. ANGLO-AFRICAN]Take the footstool, little creature—
Place it very gently down;
Smooth the wrinkles very neatly
From the…
Tune—Happy-HomeSend the glad tidings o'er the sea,—His chains are broke, the Slave is free;Britannia's justice, wealth, and mightHave gained the Negro's long-lost right!His chains are broke, the Slave is free,—This is the Negro's jubilee!Hail!…
Spring was busy in the woodlands,
Climbing up from peak to peak,
As an old man sat and brooded,
With a flush upon his cheek.
Many years pressed hard upon him,
And his living friends were few,
And from out the sombre future
Troubles drifted…
My sorrow is no dream—the earth has none
Whose bosom-chords are quivering for me;
If the unending universe bears one,
My mother—oh! my mother!—it is thee.
And since the dark grave veiled thee from my sight,
I have endured the loneliness of…
