[Footnote 1:  A picture by Henry Meyer, Esq.]

  While this tawny Ethiop prayeth,
  Painter, who is she that stayeth
  By, with skin of whitest lustre,
  Sunny locks, a shining cluster,
  Saint-like seeming to direct him
  To the Power that must protect him? 
  Is she of the Heaven-born Three,
  Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet Charity;
  Or some Cherub?—­

  They you mention
  Far transcend my weak invention. 
  ’Tis a simple Christian child,
  Missionary young and mild,
  From her stock of Scriptural knowledge,
  Bible-taught without a college,
  Which by reading she could gather
  Teaches him to say OUR FATHER
  To the common Parent, who
  Color not respects, nor hue. 
  White and black in Him have part,
  Who looks not to the skin, but heart.

* * * * *

TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.

  Crown me a cheerful goblet, while I pray
  A blessing on thy years, young Isola;
  Young, but no more a child.  How swift have flown
  To me thy girlish times, a woman grown
  Beneath my heedless eyes! in vain I rack
  My fancy to believe the almanac,
  That speaks thee Twenty-One.  Thou shouldst have still
  Remain’d a child, and at thy sovereign will
  Gambol’d about our house, as in times past. 
  Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast,
  Hastening to leave thy friends!—­for which intent,
  Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment: 
  After some thirty years, spent in such bliss
  As this earth can afford, where still we miss
  Something of joy entire, may’st thou grow old
  As we whom thou hast left!  That wish was cold. 
  O far more aged and wrinkled, till folks say,
  Looking upon thee reverend in decay,
  “This Dame, for length of days, and virtues rare,
  With her respected Grandsire may compare.” 
  Grandchild of that respected Isola,
  Thou shouldst have had about thee on this day
  Kind looks of Parents, to congratulate
  Their Pride grown up to woman’s grave estate. 
  But they have died, and left thee, to advance
  Thy fortunes how thou may’st, and owe to chance
  The friends which nature grudged.  And thou wilt find,
  Or make such, Emma, if I am not blind
  To thee and thy deservings.  That last strain
  Had too much sorrow in it.  Fill again
  Another cheerful goblet, while I say
  “Health, and twice health, to our lost Isola.”

* * * * *

SHE IS GOING.

For their elder Sister’s hair
Martha does a wreath prepare
Of bridal rose, ornate and gay;
To-morrow is the wedding-day. 

                                      She is going.

Mary, youngest of the three,
Laughing idler, full of glee,
Arm in arm does fondly chain her,
Thinking, poor trifler, to detain her—­

                                              But she’s going.