Etty Rover, by L. E. L.. 127 The Irish Emigrant's Lament, by Mrs. Blackwood, A Dirge, by James Russell Lowell, Prison Discipline, by Lydia Maria Child, The French Revolution, by William H. Burleigh, Books for the People, by Anne C. Lynch, The Pauper's Drive, by Baptist Noel, The Chimney-Sweeper, by William Blake, The Poor Man's Day, by Ebenezer Elliott, The Temple of Nature, by Dr. Chatfield, Sonnets on the Lord's Prayer, by Robt. T. Conrad, 135 137 143 144 The Arsenal at Springfield, by Henry W. Long- The Economy of Slavery, by Lydia Maria Child, Epitome of War, by The "Ettrick Shepherd," The Free Mind, by William Lloyd Garrison, The Revellers, by William D. Gallagher, To a Waterfowl, by William Cullen Bryant, The Farewell of a Virginia Slave Mother to her 271 225 Hope, by Richard Penn Smith, E. S. Norton, 271 228 From Longfellow's Hyperion, 228 The Yankee Girl, by John G. Whittier, The Female Martyr, by John G. Whittier, 232 Lines written on the adoption of Pinckney's 240 240 276 241 277 277 243 277 245 278 246 279 246 247 280 Little Children, 247 The Cypress Tree of Ceylon, by J. G.Whittier, 248 The Slave Ships, by John G. Whittier, 281 282 It is Little, by Thomas N. Talford, 248 The One Idea, by Sarah Jane Clarke, . 283 286 The Branded Hand, by John G. Whittier, . 287 288 VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED. No. I. So loud and long have the multitude chaunted the glory of low pleasures, that the voices of true-hearted men have scarcely been heard in the world's chorus. Now and then, in the interludes of passion, when a holy calm has fallen upon the spirits of all,-when the pestilence has walked at noon-day, or the power of the Most High has been otherwise vividly shown,-Truth and Holiness seemed to bear some sway in the souls and words of men. But again came the old passion:-again the old chaunt arose from city, hillside, and valley-depth; and again the voice of God in the soul, and the voices of true-hearted men were unheeded; or, if some fragments of them were caught, heeded only to be derided by those whose spirits grovelled in the dust, and knew not how glorious was the love and beauty of the Most High. ONE there was, ages ago, who amid scoffing-loneliness of heart-peril-death-spake out the pure truth as he received it from the Father. His was no wreath of flowers awarded by men to the noblest. And as to him was awarded a crown of thorns,-to those whose voices joined with his for love and truth, in defiance of form-custom-selfishness, like crowns were given; and soldiers who enlisted in works of darkness, Pharisees trailing about long texts on their garments, but not in their hearts,-Sadducees living only for the present,-and the fickle mob, shouted in derision, and spit upon them, and crucified them in not less fearful Golgothas than that of old. But danger never stifled truth. In all ages some brave men have been raised up, true lovers of God, who lived only in Him, whose only fear was to neglect His will,-men who could bear the taunt calmly, who could joy in the tortures of the Inquisition, who could give up home, and parents, and children, and wife for Truth's sake. These men reasoned and exhorted and rebuked by the way side,-at the social gathering, public feast, and solemn meeting-unawed by the presence of the self-righteous or open scoffer; and wrought their good works, until many hearts beat-not for praise-not for wealth-not for powernot for showy learning, but-for the pure truth spoken by Jesus, and now uttered by God in every spirit willing to heed it. On, on, on!—The voices grew as time rocked the zephyr into the hurricane. The strong soul poured forth glorious thoughts. Men became habituated to the idea and practice of high truth. The possibility of change for the better was acknowledged. Glory to God rang abroad over the earth-Io Pans, unlike the foul praises that were wont to be offered up. Some of the words of these lovers of the All-True, or echoes of them, have fallen upon my ear, and stirred up within me such free born thoughts and craving for true purity, that I cannot forbear to scatter them still more widely over the earth. Reader! they are seeds borne upon the untrammeled breezes of thought into every open heart-into thine, if thou wilt. Keep them there, and nurture them. Love them as a maiden loves the sweet flowers that grow beneath her eye,-yea, love them infinitely more-and they shall impart rich fragrance to thy whole nature, and endow thee with strength, not only in the life-giving morning, and quiet moonlight even-time, but in the heat and trial of the day, when not only a truth-loving but truth-acting heart is required of thee to do nobly thy devoir as a man and a Christian. Joyfully-oh joyfully, let us look forward to the time when the world's chorus shall be battle-cries for the right, when blood-stained fields, with all their pomp, shall be only heard of as a tale of evil days long gone,-when wealth and birth shall no more be esteemed,-when love shall be pure, not sensual,—— when all shall seek their neighbor's good, and the good of all mankind, as they now seek their own. Joyfully let us look forward, and with no craven heart speed the good work. Philadelphia, 11th mo. 8th, 1844. 2 VOICES OF THE TRUE HEARTED. EXCELSIOR. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. The shades of night were falling fast, His brow was sad, his eye beneath The accents of that unknown tongue, In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright: Above, the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior! Try not the pass!" the old man said; "Dark lowers the tempest overhead; The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior! "Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest "Beware the pine-tree's withered branch Beware the awful avalanche !" This was the peasant's last good night: At break of day, as heavenward A voice cried through the startled air, A traveller, by the faithful hound, There in the twilight cold and gray, www A PSALM OF LIFE. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. Tell me not in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real-life is earnest- Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Heart within, and God o'er head ! We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footsteps on the sands of time. Footsteps, that perhaps another Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Stil achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. REFORM. A new year of labor has begun in the stillness of winter. In the moral world, however, the fields are ever white for the harvest, and the reaper has only to put in the sickle, and do his part towards the great in-gathering.. There are no seasons of repose to the reformer. It is ever, with him, seed-time and harvest. Though the seed he scatters broadcast over the world, is invisible to the unanointed eye, it is still a reality-the only reality-for that seed is truth. It becomes him ever to be ready, with his loins girded, and his seed in his hand, to go abroad, scattering the unseen, but almighty germs of happiness. Much discouragement and disheartening will he meet with from a froward and perverse generation -because they look still for an outward redemption, for an earthly Messiah. The evils of outward condition absorb their sight. They scoff at, and belie, and, it may be, crucify him who would draw them from their physical deliverance, by the mighty |