“No! they will never come;
      We go to them, my boy,
    There, in our heavenly home,
      To meet in endless joy.”

    Upon his father’s knee
      Still Charley kept his place,
    And very thoughtfully
      He looked up in his face.

REMEMBER THE SLAVE.

    Mother! whene’er around your child
      You clasp your arms in love,
    And when, with grateful joy, you raise
      Your eyes to God above,

    Think of the negro mother, when
      Her child is torn away,
    Sold for a little slave,—­O, then
      For that poor mother pray!

    Father! whene’er your happy boys
      You look upon with pride,
    And pray to see them when you’re old,
      All blooming by your side,

    Think of that father’s withered heart,
      The father of a slave,
    Who asks a pitying God to give
      His little son a grave.

    Brothers and sisters! who with joy
      Meet round the social hearth,
    And talk of home and happy days,
      And laugh in careless mirth,

    Remember, too, the poor young slave,
      Who never felt your joy,
    Who, early old, has never known
      The bliss to be a boy.

    Ye Christians! ministers of Him
      Who came to make men free,
    When, at the Almighty Maker’s throne,
      You bend the suppliant knee,

    From the deep fountains of your soul
      Then let your prayers ascend
    For the poor slave, who hardly knows
      That God is still his friend.

    Let all who know that God is just,
      That Jesus came to save,
    Unite in the most holy cause
      Of the forsaken slave.

HOME-SICKNESS.

Translated from the German.

    Were I a wild, wild falcon,
      I’d soar away on high,
    And seek my father’s dwelling,
      Beyond the far blue sky.

    Against that well-known door then
      I’d flap my wings with joy;
    My mother from the window
      Sees and admits her boy.

    “Dear son!” she’d say; “O, welcome! 
      How often has my heart
    Longed sadly to embrace thee;
      Now here behold thou art!”

    Thus memory still is dreaming
      Of what can never be. 
    My long-lost home,—­the loved ones,—­
      These eyes may never see.

HAPPINESS.

    What is it makes the morning bright? 
      What gilds the evening hours? 
    What makes our hearts seem gay and light,
      As if we trod on flowers?

    ’Tis innocence that makes us gay,
      Bids flowers grow everywhere;
    Makes it bright sunshine every day. 
      And every evening fair.