Madan.
Where is your heathen brother?—From his grave
Near thy own gates, or ’neath a foreign sky,
From the thronged depths of ocean’s mourning wave,
His answering blood reproachfully doth cry,
Blood of the soul!—Can all earth’s fountains make
Thy dark stain disappear?—Stewards of God, awake!
Mrs. Sigourney.