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50  MRS. LITTLE.

Oh! mourn the last disastrous hour,
  Lift the full eye of bootless grief,
While victory treads the sultry shore,
  And tears from hope the captive chief.

While the hard race of pallid hue,
  Unpracticed in the power to feel,
Resign him to the murderous crew,
  The horrors of the quivering wheel.

Let sorrow bathe each blushing cheek,
  Bend piteous o'er the tortured slave,
Whose wrongs compassion cannot speak,
  Whose only refuge was the grave.

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MRS. LITTLE

Was a native of Rhode Island, and a daughter of the Hon. Ashur Robbins of Massachusetts.  She wrote under the signature of Rowena, some twenty or thirty years ago.  The poem we give at length is one full of poetical excellence; although without any pretensions to depth of thought, or brilliancy of imagination.  It is a sketch from nature, easily, truthfully, happily drawn.  Yet not a sketch only may it be called; for there are many pictures, of domestic comfort, health, happiness, and contentment, most refreshing to contemplate, in these charming lines on New England's favourite festival day.

THANKSGIVING.

IT is thanksgiving morn — 't is cold and clear;
  The bells for church ring forth a merry sound;
The maidens in their gaudy winter gear,
  Rival the many-tinted woods around;

MRS. LITTLE.           51

  The rosy children skip along the ground,
Save where the matron reins their eager pace,
  Pointing to him, who, with a look profound,
Moves with his 'people' toward the sacred place,
Where duly he bestows the manna crumbs of grace.

Of the deep learning in the schools of yore
  The reverend pastor hath a golden stock:
Yet, with a vain display of useless lore
  Or sapless doctrine, never will he mock
  The better cravings of his simple flock;
But faithfully their humble shepherd guides
  Where streams eternal gush from Calvary's rock;
For well he knows, not learning's purest tides
Can quench the immortal thirst that in the soul abides.

The anthem swells; the heart's high thanks are given:
  Then, mildly as the dews on Hermon fall,
Begins the holy minister of heaven.
  And though not his the burning zeal of Paul,
  Yet a persuasive power is in his call;
So earnest, yet so kindly, is his mood,
  So tenderly he longs to save them all,
No bird more fondly flutters o'er her brood,
When the dark vulture screams above their native wood.

"For all His bounties, dearest charge," He cries,
  "Your hearts are the best thanks; no more refrain;
Your yielded hearts he asks in sacrifice,
  Almighty lover! shalt thou love in vain,
  And vainly woo thy wand'rers home again?
How thy soft mercy with the sinner pleads!
  Behold! thy harvest loads the ample plain;
And the same goodness lives in all thy deeds,
From the least drop of rain, to those that Jesus bleeds."

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-27 15:48:06