VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED.

THE POET.

And these he loves ;—and with all these the heart Non est ad astra mollis é terris via.--SENECA.

Of frail humanity, which like a tremulous harp

Hung in the winds, not oft from storms apart, He that would earn the Poet's sacred name,

Sobs or rejoices; and when tempests sharp Must write for future as for present ages;

Sweep the tense strings, a "sweet sad music” hears, Must learn to scorn the wreath of vulgar fame, Where others list no voice, nor heed the dropping And bear to see cold critics o'er the pages

tears. His burning brain hath wrought, wreak wantonly Their dnll and crabbed spite, or trifling mockery.

Who scorns the Poet's art, deserves the scorn

Which he would heap on others' heads; that man He must not fret his heart that men will turn Knows not the sacred gift and calling born From the deep wealth his soul hath freely given;

Within the Poet's soul when life began :He must not marvel that their spirits burn Knows not that he must speak, and not for fame,

With fire so dim and cold. The God of Heaven But that his heart would wither else within its flame. Who hung the golden stars in loftiest sky, Hath o'er all spirits set the Poet's heart on high.

Time's wreaths await him : far in future ages,

Twined in their amaranth beauty they are Star-like and high, his task and glorious sphere

shining, Is to shine on in love and light unborrowed, And blessings rained upon his fragrant pages, Yet looking down, to hold all nature dear,

And tears from kindred hearts, quenching reAnd where a heart hath deeply joyed or sorrowed,

pining To gather to itself all images

With a warm sympathy, and smiles of joy Of mind, and heart and passion, and to breathe life Embalm a sacred life which Time cannot destroy.

through these : And in this life, burning through all his words,

THE OCEAN. And glancing back so strangely on man's soul

“In a season of calm weather, The image of himself, the bard records

Though inland far we be, The power which lifts all nature, till the whole

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea

That brought us hither, Swims in the spirit of beauty, and the breath

Can in a moment travel thither,

And see the children sport upon the shore, Of earthly things is murmuring life untouched by

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore." death.

WORDSWORTH. Thus hovering, bee-winged, over every flower,

Tell me, brother, what are we?And gathering all the nectar from its blossom,

Spirits bathing in the sea And e'en midst broken hearts, in grief's dark hour,

Of Deity! Stealing a sweetness from the poison bosom,

Half afloat and half on land, He garners up the honey of his thought,

Wishing much to leave the strand, And yields unto the world what'er his soul hath Standing, gazing with devotion, wrought.

Yet afraid to trust the Ocean

Such are we.
His is the task to clothe the dull and common
In the rich garb of ever-living yonth;

Wanting love and holiness
And o'er the soul of child, or man, or woman,

To enjoy the wave's caress; And o'er the countenance of daily truth,

Wanting faith and heavenly hope, And o'er Creation's face to spread the light

Buoyantly to bear us up; Of beauty, as it shines in God's eternal sight.

Yet impatient in our dwelling,

When we hear the ocean swelling. He may not stoop to pander to the herd

And in every wave that rolls Or fickle tastes and morbid appetites ;

We behold the happy souls He hath upon his lips a holy word,

Peacefully, triumphantly And he must heed not if it cheers or blights,

Swimming on the smiling sea,
So it be Truth, and the deep earnest fire

Then we linger round the shore,
Of no dull earthward thought, nor any base desire, Lovers of the earth no more.
His path is through all nature like the sun ;

Once,-'twas in our infancy,
From world to world, like a recording spirit;

We were drifted by this sea And with all shapes and hues his heart is one ;

To the coast of human birth, And if a bird but sing, his ear must hear it,

To this body and this earth: And the coarse, scentless flower is as a brother,

Gentle were the hands that bore And the green turf the gentle bosom of a mother.

Our young spirits to the shore ;

Gentle lips that bade us look

THE ARTIST.
Outward from our cradle nook

He breathed the air of realms enchanted,
To the spirit-bearing ocean

He bathed in seas of dreamy light,
With such wonder and devotion,

And seeds within his soul were planted
As each stilly Sabbath day,

That bore us flowers for use too bright,
We were led a little way,

Unless it were to stay some wandering spirit's flight.
Where we saw the waters swell
Far away from inland dell,

With us he lived a common life,
And recived with grave delight

And wore a plain familiar name,
Symbols of the Infinite :-

And meekly dared the vulgar strife
Then our home was near the sea ;

That to inferior spirits came -
« Heaven was round our infancy :"

Yet bore a pulse within, the world could never tame.
Night and day we heard the waves

And skies more soft than Italy's
Murmuring by us to their caves ;-

Their wealth of light around him spread,
Floated in unconscious life,

Their tones were his, and only his-
With no later doubts at strife,

So sweetly floating o'er his head-
Trustful of the upholding Power

None knew at what rich feast the favoured guest was
Who sustained us hour by hour.

fed.
Now we've wandered from the shore,
Dwellers by the sea no more;

They could not guess or reason why
Yet at times there comes a tone

He chose the ways of poverty;
Telling of the visions flown,

They read no wisdom in his eye,
Sounding from the distant sea,

But scorned the holy mystery
Where we left our purity;

That brooded o'er his thoughts and gave him power
Distant glimpses of the surge

to see.
Lure us down to ocean's verge ;

But all unveiled the world of Sense
There we stand with vague distress,

An inner meaning had for him,
Yearning for the measureless;

And Beauty loved in innocence,
By half-wakened instincts driven,

Not sought in passion or in whim,
Half loving earth, half loving heaven, Within a soul so pure could ne'er grow dull and dim.
Fearing to put off and swim,

And in this vision did he toil,
Yet impelled to turn to Him
In whose life we live and move,

And in this Beauty lived and died.

And think not that he left his soil
And whose very name is Love.

By no rich tillage sanctified;
Grant me courage, Holy One,

In olden times he might have been his country's pride.
To become indeed thy son,

And yet may be-though he hath gone-
And in thee, thou Parent-Sea,

For spirits of so fine a mould
Live and love eternally.

Lose not the glory they have won;

Their memory turns not pale and cold

While Love lives on, the lovely never can grow old.
BEAUTY
Men talk of Beauty-of the earth and sky,

FIRST TRUTHS.
And the blue stillness of sweet inland waters,
And search all language with a lover's eye.

They come to me at night, but not in dreams,

Those revelations of realities; For flowers of praise to deck earth’s glorious daughters.

Just at the turning moment ere mine eyes And it is well within the soul to cherish

Are closed to sleep, they come clear sudden gleams, Such love for all things beautiful around.

Brimfull of truth like drops from heaven's deep But there is Beauty that can never perish;

streams A hidden path no « vulture's eye'* hath found.

They glide into my soul. Entranced in prayer, Vainly ye seek it who in Sense alone

I gaze upon the vision shining there, Wander amid the sweets the world hath given;

And bless the Father for these transient beams.

The trite and faded forms of Truth then fall.
As vainly ye who make the Mind the throne,
While the Heart bends a slave, insulted, driven.

I look into myseif, and all alone
Thou who wouldst know what Beauty this can be,

Lie bared before the Eternal All-in-all; Look on the sunlight of the Soul's deep purity.

Or wandering forth in spirit, on me thrown

A magic robe of light, I roam away ." There is a path which no fowl knoweth, and which the To the true vision-land, unseen by day. vulture's eye hath not seen."-JOB xxviii. 7.

BY JAMES T. FIELDS.

THE PROPHET UNVEILED.

DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL.

From the Spanish. Kindly he did receive us where he dwelt And in his smile and eye I inly felt The self-same power, the influence mild and grand, Underneath the sod, low lying, dark and drear, Which o'er our kindred souls had held command, Sleepeth one who left, in dying, sorrow here, When to the page his mind had wrought we turned. Yes, they're ever-bending o'er her, eyes that weep; But now anew our hearts within us burned, Forms that to the cold grave bore her, vigils keep. As side by side, we hearkened to his talk,

When the summer moon is shining soft and fair, Or rambled with him in his morning walk. Friends she loved, in tears are twining chaplets there. Unveiled he stood; and beautiful he moved

Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit, throned above ; Amid home-sympathies ;-a heart that loved

Souls like thine with God inherit life and love.
Nature as dearly as a gentle mother,
And man as a great spirit and a brother.
In the clear deepening river of his thought,

TO LITTLE MARY.
Welling in tones and words by nature taught;
In the mild lustre of the long-lashed eye,

The following beautiful lines were addressed to a And round the delicate lips, how artlessly

| little girl—an only child—in this city, who, in her Broke forth the intuitions of his mind.

sleep, repeated the passage she was accustomed I listened and I looked, but could not find

nightly to utter before closing her eyes. Courage or words to tell my sympathy

“ I konw that the angels are whispering to thee." With all this deep-toned wisdom borne to me.

Thou art so like a dream of heaven, Still less could I declare how, ere I knew

That still thy visions seem, The spell his visible presence o'er me threw,

Like that phenomenon of sleep,
The page his inspiration wrought, had warmed

A dream within a dream !
Daily to life the faith within me formed
Of Nature's great relationship to man;

And pure the thoughts that memory brings,

To voice thy dreaming hour;
So far his speed of sight my own outran.

The butterfly has closed its wings,
And if I spoke, it seemed to me my thought
Was but a pale and broken reflex caught

Upon a lily flower!
From his own orb; so silently I sat

• God bless me—make me a good girl."— Amen. Drinking in truth and beauty. Yet there was that Not such the dream by slumber thrown, In his serene and sympathizing smile,

When grief's rough swell is o'er; Which as I listened, told me all the while

The ebb of pain, its after moan! That nearer intercourse might give me right

Tue surge upon the shore ! To come within the region of his light;

Thy prayer is but the echoing Not to be dazzled, moth-like, by his flame,

Of waking peace and love, But go as independent as I came.

The rustling of the Spirit's wing! And once again within the lighted hall,

The cooing of its dove ! Where Mind and Beauty gathered to his call,

« God bless me-make me a good girl."— Amen. We heard him speak; upon his eye and tongue, The roses of the Persian field, Dropping their golden thoughts we mutely hung.

With all their wealth of bloom, Aurora shootings mixed with summer lightning, Are crush'd, though thousands may but yield Meteors of truth thro' beauty's sky still bright’ning;

A drop of rich perfume ; Phenix-lived things born amid stars and flashes,

And thus, the heart with feeling rise, And rising rocket-winged from their own ashes;

Is crushed, alas! by care : Pearls prodigally rained, too large and fast;

Yet, blest, if suffering wring from life, Rich-music tones too sweet and rare to last

Its other drop-of prayer. Such seemed his natural utterance as it passed.

" God bless me—make me a good girl." - Amen.
And yet the steadier light that shone alway,
Looked through these meteors in their rapid play, Mother! sweet mother! thou hast taught
And warmed around us like the sunlight mild,

That infant soul to pray,
And Truth in Beauty's robes stood by and smiled. Before a rose-leaf from its thought

The world has blown away-
Prayer ! on that lip that once was thine!

Thoughts, of thine own a part!
Dropp'd jewels of thy spirit's mine,

Sleep scatters o'er her heart!
" God bless me-make me a good girl.”—Amen.

VOICES OF THE TRUE HEARTED.

No. 5.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

THE SLAVE MARKET AT WASHINGTON. had come to the city in a vessel, and had been seized

and imprisoned on suspicion of being a slave. As

he happened to have no document to prove his freeI find, in a late number of the Albany Patriot, a dom, after having been kept in close confinement in letter from a gentleman in the city of Washington, a prison cell for six months, he was in a few days to addressed to the editor, from which I take the fol- be sold as a slave, to pay the fees of the jailor! lowing paragraphs :

We visited, the next day, a slave holder's estab* This year, over five thousand slaves have already lishment in the city of Washington. It stood somebeen sold in our dens of diabolism, and many more what apart from the dense part of the city, yet in heart strings will be broken before the winter sets in, by full view of the capitol. Its dark, strong walls rose sundering all the ties of life, to meet the demand of hu- in dim contrast with the green beauty of early summan victims in the Louisiana market. In Florida, also, the demand has been increased, by the diabolical law mer—a horror and an abomination-a blot upon the to encourage the armed settlement of that slavery- fair and pleasant landscape. We looked in upon a cursed territory, and thus increase the political weight group of human beings herded together like cattle of the slave system in the councils of the country. for the market. The young man in attendance in

“Scenes have taken place in Washington, this sum- formed us that there were five or six other regular mer, that would make the devil blush through the darkness of the pit, if he had been caught in them. A slave dealers in the city, who, having no prisons of fortnight ago last Tuesday, no less than SIXTY HU- their own, kept their slaves in this establishment, MAN BEINGS were carried right by the capitol yard or in the CITY PRISON. The following advertiseto a slave ship! The men were chained in couples, ment of this infernal market house, I have copied and fastened to a log chain, as it is common in this re- from the Washington Globe and the Intelligencer : gion. The women walked by their side. The little children were carried along in wagons.”

CASH PAID FOR NEGROES.” In the summer of 1840, when in Washington, I took occasion, in company with two friends, to visit “ The subscriber wishes to purchase a number of nethe principal slave-trading establishments of the goes for the Louisiana and Mississippi markets. He district. In Alexandria, at a great slave prison for Himself or agent, at all times, can be found at his

will pay the highest price which the market will justify. merly known as Franklin & Armfield's, there were JAIL, on Seventh street, the first house south of the about fifty slaves. They were enclosed by high, market bridge, on the west side. Letters addressed to strong walls, with grated iron doors. Among them him will receive the earliest attention. was a poor woman who had escaped, twelve years

WILLIAM H. WILLIAMS." before, from slavery, and who had married a free She had been hunted out by some of those

In the same papers, four other regular dealers in human blood-hounds, who are in the detestable oc.

human beings advertised themselves. In addition, cupation of slave-catchers, separated from her hus- George Kephart, of Alexandria, advertised the copband, and, with her child, had been sold to the spec- per fastened brig, Isaac Franklin.” It was nearly ulators for the New Orleans market. Another wo

ready to sail with slaves for New Orleans. So much man, whose looks and manner were expressive of for the national newspaper organs of the whig and dedeep anguish, had, with her nive children, been sold mocratic parties! What must be the state of parties away from her husband an everlasting separation!

which can acknowledge such papers as their mouth But her sorrows had but just begun. Long ere this,

pieces. she and her children have probably been re-sold,

On the wall of the slave dealer's office were sus. scattered and divided, and are now toiling in hope- pended some low and disgraceful pictures and caricaless bereavement, or buried like brutes, without a tures, in which the abolitionists and blacks were tear or Christian rite, on the banks of the Missis- represented, and in which Daniel O'Connell and John sippi.

Q. Adams held a prominent position, as objects for From this horrible MARKET HOUSE of HU- the obscene jokes and witticism of the scoundrel MAN FLESH, we were informed that from fifteen traffickers. For one, I regard it as an honorable tesbundred to two thousand slaves are sometimes sent timony to the faithfulness and heroism of these great to the South in a single year.

and good men, in their advocacy of human freedom. At the Alexandria public jail was a poor lad who The time is, I trust, not far distant, when those very

man.