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The Christian Observatory.

BY THE EDITOR.

The Christian Observatory: A Religious and Literary Magazine. A. W. McCLURE, Editor.

It may be well, sometimes to let our readers know the kind of opposition that we have to meet with. The above periodical has been extremely inimical to our whole work. The editor seems at a loss for terms sufficiently bitter to express his views. We know his history, and we expected nothing better. Mr. McClure may lay claim to one thing certainly, and that is originality. It is really a curiosity:

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PRISONERS' FRIEND. This publication belongs to the insect world. It first made its appearance as a little newspaper, monthly, we believe, called "The Hangman." It was then a creeping thing. Next it became a weekly, under the still more ironical name of " Prisoners' Friend;" as though "hangman" and "prisoners' friend" were all one and the same. This was its chrysalis state, disgusting and helpless. It is now a handsomely printed monthly pamphlet, with a sort of jaunty and literary air. This is its butterfly-state, though it leaves a slimy trace on every leaf and flower where it alights. The way the editor and his helpers befriend the prisoner is, by excusing all his unhandsome peccadilloes, and by laying the blame wholly on an uncertain impersonal something called "Society,' which has organized itself so badly as to compel the poor misfortunate prisoner to steal or kill that he may gratify propensities which he has no other means of indulging. This publication seeks to befriend lovely manslayers also, by bringing capital punishment to an end. It regards life so sacred that it may never be taken. "Yon must not take what you cannot give." We presume that when the editor "catches a flea in his ear," or some other interesting animal which grazes in near vicinity to that organ, he never extinguishes the vitality which he is impotent to impart; but, like Uncle Toby with his fly, turns the depredators loose to prey upon society at large. On the subject of capital punishment, we have a divine law, and the reason of that law; which were also proclaimed long prior to the Mosaic code, and addressed to the whole human race through its second progenitor and his sons. "Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed." This is the universal and perpetual law of God; and the reason of the law is added-" FOR in the image of God made he man." As the defacing and overthrowing of the statue of a king is an act of high treason, which stands at the head of all crimes, so to destroy the living image of God is the highest treason against the King of kings. The wilful homicide has murdered God in effigy. For this he stands an outlaw, and is placed in the same class with the wild beast which has destroyed a human being; and "at the hand of every beast," and at the hand of every such brutal man, the blood they have shed is required. Here the maxim applies in full force: "The law remains so long as the reason of the law remains." It is said that the gospel brings in a milder law. But has the gospel taken away "the image of God" from man? Or has it rather, so far as its influence has gone, heightened and perfected that image? If the benevolent power of the gospel has increased our likeness to God, then it has strengthened the reason of the law given through Noah, and so confirms the law itself. Here is the argument in a nut-shell. We will only add, that in Michigan, the only state in the union which has yet abol ished the death-penalty, the people already, after a short trial, are alarmed at the increase of the blacker crimes, aud grand juries are petitioning that the principle of the divine legislation may be restored to the statute-book.

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An American Editor.

[Jan.

The Editor would have done well to have come to us for a few facts. The periodical was originally started as a weekly, and has been so continued until within four months. Mr. McClure takes the usual route to find a place for the gallows. He looks about him, and finding no place in the New Dispensation, he at once hastens on, and cuts through the body of Christ, passes by the prophets, and over Moses with his thirtyfour capital offences, and at last arrives at a remarkable period in the history of the world. The earth had been drowned by a deluge. After some days the Great Patriarch of a new world anxious once more to see dry land, sends out the dove which returns with the olive branch. And now as the only family are about to enter and replenish the earth, our editor finds a place whereon to erect his gallows. Fortunate man! We sometimes wonder he and the advocates of blood do not go just the other side of the flood. But no, this would place them at a period of time when even the "lovely manslayer" was suffered to go unhung. But our friend at last comes back and wandering over our great Republic he finds one State where the gallows does not exist, and he then catches at a mere report that this State, Michigan is again to return to the bloody statute. But we cannot follow this eccentric editor. The day will come when the last press will cease to speak in favor of this barbarous law. May the Lord hasten the time.

An American Editor.

OUR American brethren have an off-hand, free-and-easy, rough-andready way of editing their newspapers. Here is The Prisoners' Friend, a Boston journal filled with a mortal hatred of Jack Ketch—or, at least, of his avocation. The readers wish to know in what language to petition the Legislature for Jack's discharge. "Don't be particular about the form," says the editor. "The undersigned respectfully ask you to abolish the law of Capital Punishment. That is enough" certainly not too much. He is a thrifty man, the editor; economical of his words. He is "much in want of money," however, in spite of his thrift, but has sources of happiness which support him among the shabbiness of subscribers and the atrophy of his pocket. "He is happy to be able to inform his friends that the Rev. Alvin Abbott, a faithful and amiable man, is now devoting his time and talents to lecturing on the abolition of capital punishment, collecting bills, and obtaining subscribers for the Prisoners' Friend!" An invaluable man, Alvin Abbott. "Wanted, a woman!" Our brother stands in need of a volunteer from the fair sex. "One who is a good accountant, understands the mailing of papers, and is familiar with composition, would be preferred." If our friend-(we call him our "friend" because he is the "Prisoners' Friend")—if he has got his want supplied, his paper will not only be mailed, but femaled. What he means by "composition" we don't exactly know. Is the lady to assist him, or the compositors?-Gateshead Observer:

The above is from a paper published in Great Britain. It has attracted much notice in this country, having already been extensively copied. We thank the editor for his kind notice. We would just inform him that we have not yet obtained the "volunteer from the female sex," so that our paper is only mailed as yet. We are on the look out, and we shall be glad to let him know when we arrive at so desirable a consumatiou of our wishes.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1848, by J. H. ROBINSON, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.

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THE following poem was written several years ago. It is among the author's earliest productions, although many alterations, and corrections have since been made. The writer has little excuse to make for offering it to the public. many imperfections, no doubt and might afford work enough for the critic should he feel disposed to mark its faults.

Ye critics, and poets, speak kindly to the "Fugitive Chief."

J. H. R.

NIGHT'S noxious vapors, chill, and damp,
Were falling on the Dismal Swamp,
And gathering shadows, dim, opaque,
Lay softly on its sleeping lake,
Without a breeze its wave to wake,
Or bid them on its dank shore break.
So still was all, there seemed to be
A spell upon that tiny sea,-
A hush that bade its waters sleep
A slumber motionless, and deep.

The Raven's croakings, hoarse, and low-
The herald of some lurking woe-
The stealthy Panther's shriek of fear,
Like dirge-note struck the eager ear-
Telling of death, and danger near-
Of life lost in the wild-wood drear-
No friend to soothe-no hope to cheer.
Gliding from tangled weed, and brake,
The Copper-head, and Rattle-snake,
With deadly fang-with flashing eye,
Their charm-power, and their venom try-
Hiss while their struggling victims die.
So passion, from her covert creeps,
And ruins while our reason sleeps.

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Bleeding, fainting, hungry, worn,
With grief, and travel overborne-
With fevered pulse-with heaving chest-
With weary limbs that needeth rest,
A human form I see

Stretched hopeless 'neath a sheltering tree.
Who can the wretched wanderer be?

The brows depressed, the dusky face
Proclaim him of that much wronged race
Condemned to toil through life in vain
In fields of Cotton, and of Cane-
A life of servitude and pain.

A tyrant's varying mood to please
They bow the back, and bend the knees,
Nor know one blessed hour of ease;
Oh God, be merciful to these!
Break the cold links that hold them fast.
And give them right, and rest at last-
A Sabbath when the woe is past.
Torn by a rude, and Pirate band
From all they hope, or love below,
They wander in a stranger land,
And toil in weariness and woe-
A fate none save a slave may know,
Although his doom seems sad and low.

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And fewer still would wish to make
Their couch beside the Dismal Lake:
Far better than such rest, to wake
Until the crimson morning break.
Cold, cold, and comfortless the breast,
And sore the heart that findeth rest
While of such dreary spot the guest.
"Tis not in idle thought alone,
Impels me thus to speak, Unknown
And dress my words in pity's tone;
My thoughts more gen'rous impulse own.
Despite thy worn. and wretched guise-
Those written lines upon thy brow-
A voice is speaking from thine eyes;
It tells me that thou art not now
The being Nature destined thee-
A spirit fetterless and free-
And tameless as a storm-rocked sea.
The stranger sadly raised his head-
Turned coldly on his mossy bed,
Fixed his fierce, flashing eye on me,
And long, and earnestly gazed he,
As by one stedfast look he sought
To read my soul-scan all its thought.
There was a something, stern, and high
Beamed from his features, and his eye,
That awed me, and that instant drew
The homage rightfully his due.

And then that proud, and out-cast man
His tale of sorrow thus begun,
And deep, and dark, his hist'ry ran.
Calm was his visage, and severe

As look the skies when storms are near;
Yet sometimes o'er his faultless frame
Which even slavery could not tame,
A wave of softer feeling came :
Some seemed it like a blush of shame;
But transient as the fitful flash-
Bright herald of the thunder crash-
That lights an instant with its flame
Departs and leaves the night the same-
An instant blinds us with its glare-
We look again, it is not there-
We gaze upon the empty air;
It was a fearful thing to see
The spasm of silent agony.

That would for one brief moment play
Along his brow, then pass away,
Leaving deep furrows where it lay.
Each instant of such mental strife
Counts one long year in human life;
Ages of bliss would not o'erpay

The misery of one such day.

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"Long has it been since words like thine
Have fallen on my heart's cold shrine;
Oh! speak again! and they shall be
Like sunlight on a turbid sea.

Stranger, I would that thou could'st read
The thoughts that rush with lightning spee
Along my racked, and phrenzied mind,
Leaving a burning track behind,
And thoughts no chain on earth can bind.
Great are my wrongs-too long the tale-
A theme to make thy check grow pale-
And time, and patience both would fail,
Should I each part to thee recount,
Or e'en in thought life's ills surmount;
And I would not live o'er again
A past whose ev'ry pulse was pain-
Which sighed for rest and sighed in vain.
It may not be-thou canst not know
The height, the depth of human woe.
Yet what I can, I will impart,
The rest must rankle in my heart
Till God take back the breath he gave,
And time is bartered for the grave.

[Jan.

This night in dreams my requim song
Was chanted sadly in uiy ear;
It did not make my heart less strong-
I heard with more of joy than fear.
For me death has no terrors now,
Can bring no paleness to my brow,
And gladly to its stroke I'd bow,-
And deem the hour that set me free
A blessed visitant to me.
But were I what I used to be,
A chief in lands beyond the sea,
How fervently I'd pray for life,
Forgetful of the present strife.
How many painful mem'ries start,
And course along from brain to heart-
How fast my thoughts come and depart,
With scarce an interval between-
Wild, dreamy, restless: and unseen-
Like serpent gliding in the dark.
Without a sound its course to mark ;
The smart is felt-the mischief done
Before you deem there's aught to shun.

Stranger, I would not lay these limbs
-Count not the thought with mad men's

whims

Beside this Lake all cold and still,
Were fate obedient to my will;
But I would fain lay down to rest
In the far land I love the best,
With its dear soil upon my breast-
Near where the Nile's dark waters flow.
And Palm-tree, and Palmmetto grow,
In which the winds sigh soft and low.
Methinks the sad, and murmuring sound
Would soothe, and when the Spring comes
round,

Its foliage rich, and green would wave
A mournful requiem o'er my grave.
Thrice blessed rest from earthly care,
That ne'er shall waken to despair.
There loving friends would go to weep
And sigh above my place of sleep;
And never would my slumbers deep
Be broken by the countless sighs,
That from my bleeding brethren rise
Who faint beneath these sultry skies.

From fields of cotton, and of rice

A sound goes up to Paradise

Oh! who would hear such sad sound twice, And ever wish to list again

To such a living note of pain.

It is the Negro's weary wail—

It murmurs on each passing gale

Strange things, at which thou well mayst quail.

Those murmurs tell of darkest crime-
Of deeds done in this hated clime-

Of youth, and innocence defiled-
Of father, mother, guileless child
Torn from the last, long, dear embrace,
And sold in christian market place.
'Mid ribald jest, and mocking mirth
They part to meet no more on earth!
Into a distant bondage borne,
They only live their fate to mourn.

How doubly dreary are those strains
That tell of nought save stripes, and chains
For limbs already worn, and weak
That show the wrongs they cannot speak,
Oh! who may fear a sterner fate-
A lot more chill, and desolate.

'Tis written in the christian creed, That God the words of prayer will heed And answer in thy darkest need;

If true, the bondman's prayer sincere
Finds access to a heedful ear;
And every sigh, and every tear
Are numbered-yet His hand

In mercy spares this blood-stained land.
I list not to such idle tale-

The christian's prayer can nought avail.
I never yet sought priestly aid,
I hate his cant, his mock parade-
I cannot, and I never prayed-
My knee bent never to the sod-
I hate the white man, and his God.

In Negro land the skies are clear,
The sun serene and warm,
The birds they sang the live-long year
And cheered me with their song
Near where my humble cottage stood
The fair Nile poured its turbid flood;
In boyhood on its banks I played
Before my thoughts had even strayed
To that far clime beyond the sea-
That land of boasted liberty-
Where I was one day doomed to be
The wretch I now appear to thee.
Oft 'mid my dreaming hours the while,
My thoughts flow backward to the Nile
And then its very banks do smile
As on that well remembered hour,
When first I felt th' oppressor's power.

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My thoughts pursue their wonted track, And wildly wandering take me back Upon the heavy steps of time To brighter scene-to sunnier clime. A thousand blessed mem'ries rise Of native land, of distant skies, While one dear form with love-lit eyes, And truthful heart, and faithful breast, Awakes the thought that cannot rest. No white blood mantled in her face To link her to thy ruthless race : I would have been the first to drain Such venom from her recreant vein. I lov'd Lelis with warmth which few I deem have ever felt or knew, Nor time, nor distance can subdue. When to the heart love's power is lent And it has to its idol bent, Though it had being in a day, It cannot fade or die awayIt is a thing to dare decay

A guest which harbored once must stay. Deem it not strange that one so stern The lore of love could ever learn:The coldest human heart will turn To woman, in the darkest hour, And own at last her potent powerThat can o'er sorrow cast a charm, And life of half its ills disarm. Deep, deep, the hate I bear to those I rank among my mortal foes, And not one pitying pulse it knows, As is my hatred, so my love; Not thus with her-the stars above That gladden with their living beam, And warm to life the coldest stream, Are not more free from passions wild Than she, the simple Ethiop child.

*

Dearest, though thou art far awayThough seas, perchance, between us layRoll their blue waves, and dash their spray, And my crushed heart seems cold and chill, I'll think of thee, and love thee still. While life's dull flame, lights up my frame I still will think, and love the same

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Perhaps that hand is still, and cold,
And I shall ne'er again behold,
And to my beating bosom fold,
The form more dear than life to me:
Stolen, and borne across the sea-
Wafted from home by waves. and wind,
She left a hopeless heart behind.
Where can the weary weeper be-
What is her fate-where wanders she?
Unused to toil, her feeble frame
Must sink beneath its weight of shame-
And there are wrongs I need not name!
Alas! she faints for purer air-
She is not proof against despair.

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A year passed on, a year of pain,
Since she who on my breast had lain
Was borne across the surging main,
When by a pretext idly made
My feet were lured to ambuscade,
And I was captured, mocked, betrayed.
I struggled with my foes in vain
And shuddered when I felt the chain.
"Twas then I saw with sorrowing sight
What memory recalls to-night
So vividly that to my soul

The past seems like a studied scroll:
I see it now-it haunts me yet,
In vain I struggle to forget-
And the last pulse of life shall bring
Grim phantoms of that fearful thing-
A Slave-ship bearing o'er the waves
To christian lands a load of slaves.
I knew not that the swelling sea
Bore up upon its tireless tide,
So much of hopeless misery-

So much its warring waves should hide.
But still I love the restless waves,
They sigh above the deep, deep graves,
And sing a ceaseless requiem song
O'er those who died by christian wrong.
This is their only funeral strain-
Save the cold clanking of a chain
That may on fleshless limbs remain.
I fondly would have turned once more,
And watched the dim, receeding shore;
I wished alas! what could not be,
The chieftain was no longer tree.
I strove in vain to break my bands,
And wept upon my fettered hands.

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Stranger, I would that I could tell
The horrors of that floating hell,
Where many of my wretched race
Found loathsome fare, and stinted space,
Gaunt famine, and a burial-place.
They bound us to that dungeon floor,
And I would fain recall no more
From memory's long hoarded store.
Some mingled with the ocean's roar
The murmurs, they could not restrain
And cursed the authors of their pain.
Others were there who scorned to show
By outward signs, the more than woe
They felt within, but one might trace
Its furrows on each haggard face,
And on each stern, despairing one
Mark what the tyrant's hand had done-
Upon each livid lip might read

N. S. VOL. I. NO. v.0. S. VOL. III. NO. XL.

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