Who is it? He whose hand hath made The Heavens, too bright for mortal eye, And flowers of every varied dye! Who is it? He who meekly laid PAULINA. Lines [Suggested by the little Almanac in Mr. Hodgshon's collection of curiosities, which was constructed by the converted Africans, to mark the Sabbath] What means this simple implement ; Of workmanship so rude When curious and magnificent, With eager eyes are viewed; What claim has this to praise or blame? Ages had past, yet o'er that land No sabbath sun had shone, Until the missionary band, There worshipped God alone; And kept their sabbath as they could, In desert bare, or sheltering wood Ah no! poor Africa! for thee Whether thy sons were slaves or free, Their labours never knew a close, No hallowed day of sweet repose. Far in the regions of the west And tears of multitudes distress'd, Are not allowed a Sabbath day? And in their own bright sunny climes, By British foot untrod, No name, no sign, no word had they, To mark the day of God— But day succeeded night, and so Time pass'd in one unbroken flow. But hark! the word of God hath been, In those wide deserts spoken The spell of many thousand years, At once is spoiled, and broken And Africans, for Jesu's sake, This small memorial learn to make! Oh yes, the word of God will bring, And Christian Caffres now can sing, PAULINA The Fall of Jerusalem. MIRIAM. Alas! we listen to our fond hopes, Even till they seem no more our fancy's children. them, And that which we would have be, surely shall be. SALONE. What, mock'st thou still? still enviously doubtest The mark'd and favour'd of the Everlasting? MIRIAM. Oh gracious Lord! thou know'st she has not eaten SALONE. Ha! still unbelieving! Then, 'tis true, what I have doubted long. The chosen race of Abraham! loose apostate Of Simon's house, no sister of Salone : I blot thee from my heart, I wipe away All memory of our youthful pleasant hours, Our blended sports and tasks, and joys and sorrows; Yea, I'll proclaim thee. MIRIAM. Sister! dearest sister! Thou seest that I cannot speak for tears. SALONE. Away! thou wilt not speak, thou dar'st not-Hark! My father's armed footstep! at whose tread Sion rejoices, and the pavement stones Of Salem shout with proud and boastful echoes. The Gentiles' scourge, the Christians'—tremble, false one ! MIRIAM, SALONE, SIMON. Father! SALONE. MIRIAM. Dear father! SIMON. Daughters, I have been With Eleazar, and with John of Galilee, The son of Sadoc. We have search'd the city, If any rebel to our ordinance Do traitorously withhold his private hoard Of stolen provision from the public store. SALONE. And found ye any guilty of a fraud So base on Judah's warriors? SIMON. Yes, my children! There sate a woman in a lowly house, As though the warmth that breath'd from out their bodies Had some refreshment for their wither'd lips. We bared our swords to slay: but subtle John |