Part 13

THE MARTYR OF ALABAMA. 51

Cruel and dull, they saw in him For sport an evil chance, And then demanded of the child To give to them a dance.

"Come dance for us," the rough men said; "I can't," the child replied, "I cannot for the dear Lord's sake, Who for my sins once died."

Tho' they were strong and he was weak, He wouldn't his Lord deny. His life lay in their cruel hands, But he for Christ could die.

Heard they aright? Did that brave child Their mandates dare resist? Did he against their stern commands Have courage to insist?

Then recklessly a man (?) arose, And dealt a fearful blow. He crushed the portals of that life, And laid the brave child low.

And trampled on his prostrate form, As on a broken toy;

52 THE MARTYR OF ALABAMA.

Then danced with careless, brutal feet, Upon the murdered boy.

Christians! behold that martyred child! His blood cries from the ground; Before the sleepless eye of God, He shows each gaping wound.

Oh! Church of Christ arise! arise! Lest crimson stain thy hand, When God shall inquisition make For blood shed in the land.

Take sackcloth of the darkest hue, And shroud the pulpits round; Servants of him who cannot lie Sit mourning on the ground.

Let holy horror blanch each brow, Pale every cheek with fears, And rocks and stones, if ye could speak, Ye well might melt to tears.

Through every fane send forth a cry, Of sorrow and regret, Nor in an hour of careless ease Thy brother's wrongs forget.

THE NIGHT OF DEATH. 53

Veil not thine eyes, nor close thy lips, Nor speak with bated breath; This evil shall not always last, The end of it is death.

Avert the doom that crime must bring Upon a guilty land; Strong in the strength that God supplies, For truth and justice stand.

For Christless men, with reckless hands, Are sowing round thy path The tempests wild that yet shall break In whirlwinds of God's wrath.

THE NIGHT OF DEATH.

Twas a night of dreadful horror,-- Death was sweeping through the land; And the wings of dark destruction Were outstretched from strand to strand

Strong men's hearts grew faint with terror, As the tempest and the waves

54 THE NIGHT OF DEATH.

Wrecked their homes and swept them downward, Suddenly to yawning graves.

'Mid the wastes of ruined households, And the tempest's wild alarms, Stood a terror-stricken mother With a child within her arms.

Other children huddled 'round her, Each one nestling in her heart; Swift in thought and swift in action, She at least from one must part.

Then she said unto her daughter, "Strive to save one child from death." "Which one?" said the anxious daughter, As she stood with bated breath.

Oh! the anguish of that mother; What despair was in her eye! All her little ones were precious; Which one should she leave to die?

Then outspake the brother Bennie: "I will take the little one." "No," exclaimed the anxious mother; "No, my child, it can't be done."