The Hillsdale standard. [volume] (Hillsdale, Mich.) 1851-1909, 1855-10-16
Written for tho Standard.
THE OUTCAsT's PRAYER.
BY KATE LAWRENCE.

II fell upon him. the rich, gorgeous light
OF sunsets hour, the soft, tie beauteous
Rainbow tinted rays. contrasting strangely
With his dark ungenial, melancholy
Countenance DER which they played as gently
As 'twere a seraphs joyous, holy, bright.
Languidly. rs though exhausted, he lay
Upon the bright, green grass, which, unconscious
All Of sorrow ncar. raissd its tiny heads
As smilingly, as when holiness reigned
Supreme DER all created No bright smile
or hopeful passion, wreathed his noble brow,
But stern, all pitiless, the expression
Seemed depicted there, The dark green branches
OF the willow, as they waited lowly
Der him, so gently stirred by the breeze
Seemed to weep mournfu DER
Some hidden sorrow, while the y'sper song
Ofevening. as il sighed amidst the trees,
Seemed sadder than twere won't as though tknew
broken heart was near, and morrnOd its presence.
~. "a ---s-l.. .-A.--..-.... .-.. L. ,.As
Hisbrosd and we'll formed chest, one fain would think
He slept the cod, calm sleeI ofdeath, mouonlets
Was he, Oil that he did. 'Twere better far
Than that intense and living death, TO which
lie is subjected One lone glance, one look
At those dark, care worn features, and the tale
OF sorrow dread, which burdens and weighs down,
Depresses, kills SO many brother
Captive, is revealed 'Tis this, am a siavs.
Ahi wearled soul, pity thee Oil that
This feeble arm were strong enough to hnrl
Thy oppressor down, and free thy fettered
Pinions. But harkl hush ye winds, be murmurs
Low, Let not e'er zephyr bear estruy
One precious word.
ask il God, Oil grant 1t me, the cold and silent
grave,
cannot bear the bitter truth, rm nothing bnt
slave,
siavei aye, worse, HEATHER brute, in chains long
long confined,
The wiry thread cannot bear, and yet cannot un-
bind.
They're takenall, ALL even she, who could my sor-
share,
lis the last stroke they're to WELD. Oh God hear
my prayer.
Ahl Time had scWecly touched my bron. whon with
snion hand
rhey scared my heart with hatred dire deep "a our
onn cursed brand
And It were well my youthful arm slender for
he blow,
For my angered spirit tade striAe my vile oppress
or low.
And yet it was not'lor myself that hre or death wa.
d,ar
set when saw my motser sold, twas this that hrot
theicar.
rtoy 0ale mo check my gushing tcars, forget and
mourn more,
mi Nature h,rp. unstrpue, poured forth her sym
4 eali, 10 stare
i---4-e--.'-5---~i-s - eil s-,-s.,; su1 &.
III iii vair
4 iracsless descrti- the past, which We me-, not
pertain
Zen upon the imagery Of oneswoct flower 20 dwell
For rth+t blasted, and the thought, twcre mis-
cry TO tell.
My mother, wife and childrcnl y here, Oil where
III are they7
ly heart grows pulseless at the thought, the doom
What is it, say
rlis this, know, we're but blank, life long
bondage gv'n,
Without spirit to guide, or give us hopes CT
heav'n.
"a Ignorance with all her woes, is made our hated
God.
We Man, her willing instrument, delights to WELD
,he.rod
Old bud the world our miscry--or half its depth,
|. Pe told,
. Coz earch the chambers Of the heart the secrets
Aie'e unfold
We id not then often meet, that singing look
d scorn,
Wild fauses cen the lowest slave to curse the day
Has born,
We s. not that wi,h'ring look, which says,
Doc, forgot.
And {! So vvdly portrays our bitter dreary lot.
The wq that speak encours cement, that feed the
mery soul
That 4 aak Of life beyond the grave, the t,av'lers
pHccful goal,
It Thea csc are not for US. but death, the curse,
J, auction stall,
The Wing of fonA hearts in twain, the lash, lis
:, 'tisaH
Then unveil the silent tomb, bid mo its pre-.
its share,
= Grant his solitary boon, my first and only pray
!. sept er ead. 1855.