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by the far west-waters, On the sea-land of the South, Untombed the bones of a white man lay, Slowly crumbling to kindred clay— Sad prayer from Death's mute mouth!

Alone, far from his people, The sun of his life went down. A cry for help? No time—not a prayer: As red blood splashed thro' riven hair, His soul rose to Heaven's throne.

Ah! well for those felon hands Which the strong man foully slew, The cry from the Cross when our Saviour died "Father, forgive"—as they pierced His side— " For they know not what they do."

They have souls, say the teachers Hereafter, the same as we: If so, it is hid from human grace By blood-writ crimes of savage race So deep, that we cannot see.