A CHARADE.

In the wet rice-swamps and canebrakes tall

My first the driver wields;

It sounds among the dusky gang

In the snowy cotton-fields;

But fast comes on the day that ends

Its reign of blood and fear,—

Comes with the sound of breaking chains,

And the freedman's joyous cheer.

Be kind to such as are my second,

In spirit and in truth;

Have pity on their helpless age

And on their joyless youth.

Remember them whene'er you feast,

And on your downy bed,

For the sake of Him who “had not where

On earth to lay his head.”

Good may my third be in your hearts

Towards all of human kind,

Strong to reclaim the wandering,

And the lost lamb to find;

To help the suffering, and to bear

Thine own adversity;

To speak brave words for truth and right,

And strike for liberty.

My whole is a mournful little bird,

That in the twilight dim

Complains how hardly he's been used,

Till all must pity him.

But not one word of what he did

Reveals the doleful wight,—

His mother's story could we hear,

We might say, “Served him right!”

Whip-poor-will.