he humbler born a slave,
Whose heart with goodness may be doubly great.
Tell the hard-handed poor, yet honest man,
That though through roughest ways of life he plod,
Nature hath placed upon his birth no ban,--
All men are equal in the sight of God.

And yet a softer, pitying strain let pour,
To soothe the anguish of the troubled soul,
And fill the heart bereaved, with hope once more,
And from the brow the heavy grief-cloud roll.
Cheer on the brave who struggle in the fight,--
And warn oppression of the gathering storm,
And drag the deeds of false ones to the light,--
And herald in the day of true reform.

Nor leave the gentler, loving themes, unsung,
Compassionate the maiden's tender woes,
Revive the faint who are with fears unstrung,
And solace them who writhe in suffering's throes.
Awake! awake! there's need enough of thee,
Nor let again such sloth enchain thy tongue,
And may thy constant effort henceforth be,
To plant the right, and to uproot the wrong.

Backward Turn, Oh! Recollection.

Backward turn, oh! recollection!
Far, far back to childhoods' days;
To those treasures of affection,
'Round which loving memory plays
Show to me the loving faces
Of my parents, now no more,--
Fill again the vacant places
With the images of yore.

Conjure up the home where comfort
Seemed to make its cosy nest;
Where the stranger's only passport,
Was the need of food and rest.
Show the schoolhouse where with others,
I engaged in mental strife,
And the playground, where as brothers
Running, jumping, full of life.

Now I see the lovely maiden,
That my young heart captive led;
Like a sylph, with gold curls laden,
And her lips of cherry red.
Now fond voices seem to echo,
Tones as when I heard them last;
And my heart sighs sadly, Heigh, ho!
For the joys for ever past.

From the past back to the present,
Come, ye wandering thoughts again;
Memories however pleasant,
Will not rid to-day of pain,
Now we live, the past is buried,--
We are midway in life's stream;
Onward, onward! ever hurried,--
And the futures but a dream.

Alice.

Dear little Alice lay dying;--
I see her as if 'twas to-day,
And we stood round her snowy bed, crying,
And watching her life ebb away.

'Twas a beautiful day in the spring,
The sun shone out warmly and clear;
And the wee birds, their love songs to sing
Came and perched on the tree