The Anglo-African Magazine

The Anglo-African Magazine

The royal casket fair.
Hath ne'er a jewel rare

From tropics brought,

That we could e'er compare

With gems of thought.

Such gems as glow and glow,
Ia beauty everymore:

Upon each page;

Whose earnest lines doth show

Poet and sage.

Sent on its mission pure, The loving heart and true

Makes strong in right;

To the false and selfish too,

It beareth light.

Monthly its way it wings, To where the mother sings,

Her lullaby

To the "wee toddling things,"

Who slumber nigh.

Beside the hearth-stone bright,
The father reads at night,

To loved ones there

Those words of truth and might,

Those words or prayer,

God's blessings evermore
From yon fair blissful shore,

Upon them be,

Who "Anglo" conned us o'er

And gave us thee.

To make our fainthearts strong,
To battle with the wrong,

To break each rod,

Oh, may'est thy life be long

Sustained by God!

Maude, from the larger article From "Myself at the Breakfast-Table" by Neither the Autocraf nor the Professor

2:2, p.39

1860.02