"This do," said CHRIST, "in memory of me." Yes: I will drink the wine and eat the bread, The heav'nly gift, which vivifies the dead; Mindful of thine unequall'd charity. No thrall, who drops his chain, and walks forth free, From dungeon to his home and fireside led, E'er felt through all his frame such rapture spread, As I do feel, O CHRIST, redeem'd by thee! And thou wilt yet still greater bliss bestow, When from the prison――barriers of the grave My captive dust in heav'nly form shall rise. Then shall I taste the joys, which angels know, In regions calm, where tempests never rave, Nor clouds e'er float across the crystal skies. 86. THE INDIAN PREACHER. Mohegan OCCOM!――not a chieftain's son,―― Yet chieftain's soul hadst thou, for thou didst say, Thy God should have thy toil from day to day, Till heav'nly life and glory thou hadst won. So in thy youth thou didst begin to run The race of Christian goodness, and to pray In humble faith and love to God alway, Utt'ring, "thy kingdom come, thy will be done."―― To preach the gospel to thy Brethren dear And guide their wand'ring steps to heav'n above Was e'er thy soul's delight――though work of fear―― For close to their's thy heart was knit in love. O blessed sight, if thou at last shalt see The ransom'd ones the Lord hath giv'n to thee! 87. SERMON IN MY NATIVE PLACE. 1851. Of swift-wing'd years how rapid is the flight? For half a hundred, on this day, save three Have fled since God in his great love to me Allow'd me to put on the armor bright, By him supplied to fit me for the fight, The ceaseless contest for true liberty;―― For truth alone can set the sinner free, And bring the blind from darkness into light. Alas, how chang'd the scene? For then were here Full many a form of loveliness now fled,―― Father and Mother, Brothers, Sisters dear, And many friends,――all sleeping with the dead. What were I now, did not God's truth divine With bright-hued hopes upon my vision shine? 88. NATIONAL CONVULSIONS, 1849. The tempest rages through the earth around, Tossing the ocean into mountain waves: Thrones shake and totter, as the storm-wind raves, And mightiest empires tremble at the sound: Man has no structure on the solid ground, Which bides the tumult, or its fury braves: The sev'n-hill'd City, which the Tiber laves, Though call'd eternal, shakes and is astound: E'en its proud chief and priest, in sad affright, Flees for his safety to a distant shore, Lest falling temples on his head alight: What is there stable 'mid this wild uproar?―― The CHURCH heeds not the angry billows' shock;―― THY CHURCH, O LORD, is founded on a rock! 89. PSALM VIII.