pendence, he beholds them estimating the power of her oppressor, the resources of her citizens, deciding in their collected might that this nation should be free, and through the long years of trial that ensued, never blenching from their purpose, but freely redeeming the pledge which they had given, to consecrate to it, "their lives, their fortunes and their sacred honor."

It is not in the field of patriotism only that deeds have been achieved to which history has awarded the palm of moral sublimity. There have lived men, in whom the name of patriot has been merged in that of philanthropist; who, looking with an eye of compassion over the face of the earth, have felt for the miseries of our race, and have put forth their calm might to wipe off one blot from the marred and stained escutcheon of human nature; to strike off one form of suffering from the catalogue of human woe. Such a man was HOWARD, Surveying our world, like a spirit of the blessed, he beheld the misery of the captive, he heard the groaning of the prisoner. His determination was fixed. He resolved, single handed, to guage and to measure one form of unpitied, unheeded wretchedness, and, bringing it out to the sunshine of public observation, to work its utter extermination, And he well

He

knew what this undertaking would cost him. knew what he had to hazard from the infections of dungeons, to endure from the fatigues of inhospitable travel, and to brook from the insolence of legalized oppression. He knew that he was devoting himself upon the altar of philanthropy, and he willingly devoted himself. He had marked out his destiny, and he hastened its accomplishment, with an intensity "which the nature of the human mind forbade to be more, and the character of the individual forbade to be less." Thus he commenced a new era in the history of benevolence. And hence the name of HOWARD will be associated with all that is sublime in mercy, until the final consummation of all things.

Such a man is CLARKSON, who looking abroad, beheld the sufferings of Africa, and, looking at home, saw his country stained with her blood. We have seen him, laying aside the vestments of the priesthood, consecrate himself to the holy purpose of rescuing a continent from rapine and murder, and erasing this one sin from the book of his nation's iniquities. We have seen him and his fellow philantropists for twenty years never waver from their purpose. We have seen them persevere amidst neglect, and obloquy, and contempt, and persecution,

until the cry of the oppressed, having roused the sensibilities of the nation, the "Island Empress" rose in her might and said to this foul traffic in human flesh, thus far shalt thou come, and no farther.

THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.

BY ALBERT G. GREENE.

O'ER a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray,
Where in his last strong agony a dying warrior lay,
The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been

bent

By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent.

66

They come around me here, and say my days of life are

o'er,

That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no

more;

that I,

They come, and to my beard they dare to tell me now,
Their own liege lord and master born,—that I, ha! ha!

must die.

And what is death? I've dared him oft before the Paynim

spear,

Think ye he's entered at my gate, has come to seek me here? I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was

raging hot,

I'll try his might-I'll brave his power; defy, and fear him not.

Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower,-and fire the cul

verin,

Bid each retainer arm with speed,-call every vassal in, Up with my banner on the wall,-the banquet board prepare,

Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armor there!"

An hundred hands were busy then,-the banquet forth was spread,

And rung the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread, While from the rich, dark tracery along the vaulted wall, Lights gleamed on harness, plume and spear, o'er the proud old Gothic hall.

Fast hurrying through the outer gate the mailed retainers poured,

On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the board.

While at its head, within his dark, carved oaken chair of

state,

Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, with girded falchion, sate.

"Fill every beaker up, my men, pour forth the cheering wine,

There's life and strength in every drop,-thanksgiving to the vine !

Are ye all there, my vassals true?-mine eyes are waxing

dim ;

Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim.

Ye're there, but yet I see ye not. Draw forth each trusty sword,

And let me hear your faithful steel clash, once around my

board:

I hear it faintly :-Louder yet!-What elogs my heavy breath?

Up all,—and shout for Rudiger, 'Defiance unto Death !'”

Bowl rang to bowl,-steel clanged to steel, and rose a deafening cry

That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on

high :

"Ho! cravens, do ye fear him?-Slaves, traitors! have ye flown?

Ho! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone!

But I defy him:-let him come!" Down rang the massy

cup,

While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing half

way up;

And with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on

his head,

There in his dark, carved, oaken chair, Old Rudiger sat,

dead.