Fling out the Anti-slavery flag, Forever let it be The emblem to a holy cause, The banner of the free. And never from its guardian height, Let it by man be driven, But let it float forever there, Beneath the smiles of heaven. From Tait’s Edinburgh Magazine. JEFFERSON’S DAUGHTER. “It is asserted, on the authority of an American newspaper, that the daughter of Thomas Jefferson, late President of the United States, was sold at New Orleans for $1,000.”--_Morning Chronicle._ Can the blood that at Lexington poured o’er the plain, When the sons warred with tyrants their rights to uphold, Can the tide of Niagara wipe out the stain? No! Jefferson’s child has been bartered for gold! Do you boast of your freedom? Peace, babblers--be still; Prate not of the goddess who scarce deigns to hear; Have ye power to unbind? Are ye wanting in will? Must the groans of your bondman still torture the ear? The daughter of Jefferson sold for a slave! The child of a freeman for dollars and francs! The roar of applause, when your orators rave, Is lost in the sound of her chain, as it clanks. Peace, then, ye blasphemers of Liberty’s name! Though red was the blood by your forefathers spilt, Still redder your cheeks should be mantled with shame, Till the spirit of freedom shall cancel the guilt. But the brand of the slave is the tint of his skin, Though his heart may beat loyal and true underneath; While the soul of the tyrant is rotten within, And his white the mere cloak to the blackness of death. Are ye deaf to the plaints that each moment arise? Is it thus ye forget the mild precepts of Penn,-- Unheeding the clamor that “maddens the skies,” As ye trample the rights of your dark fellow-men? When the incense that glows before Liberty’s shrine, Is unmixed with the blood of the galled and oppressed,-- O, then, and then only, the boast may be thine, That the stripes and stars wave o’er a land of the blest. THE SLAVE AUCTION--A FACT. AIR--Good bye. Why stands she near the auction stand? That girl so young and fair; What brings her to this dismal place, Why stands she weeping there? Why does she raise that bitter cry? Why hangs her head with shame, As now the auctioneer’s rough voice So rudely calls her name? But see! she grasps a manly hand, And in a voice so low, As scarcely to be heard, she says, “My brother, must I go?” A moment’s pause: then midst a wail Of agonizing woe, His answer falls upon the ear, “Yes, sister, you must go! No longer can my arm defend, No longer can I save My sister from the horrid fate That waits her as a SLAVE!” Ah! now I know why she is there,-- She came there to be sold! That lovely form, that noble mind, Must be exchanged for gold!