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From the tender, brave Jack her danger espying,
Their poor wretched babes saw a parent no more!
In liberty's land, thus her dictates abusing,
Humanity weeps for the fate of the tar;
To its glory in peace, its bulwark in war.
Are proud for their country to carry a scar. *
* In these lines, our attention is drawn to that peculiar kind of oppression which has been entailed upon a deserving class of men by the corruption of the times; and we cannot too forcibly express our “abhorrence of a species of licensed injury, which is repugnant to the feelings of every heart capable of reflection, and susceptible of hunanity. We refer to the detestable practice of impressing men—a practice our Constitution is ashamed to own; founded in the abuse of power, and supported by the flimsy plea of precedent-as if precedent, though it were older than the flood, could sanction wrongs, or wipe the wrinkles from the distorted front of error. It would be superfluous to enumerate here the advantages we derive from our seamen. The luxuries- the conveniences of life; the extent of our commerce; the certainty and accumulation of our knowledge; the perfection of our arts; and even our character as a nation-are furnished, promoted, or influenced, by the number and activity of our mariners. Indeed we can scarcely open our eyes without beholding some monument of their value, as citizens of their claim to our esteem and gratitude, as men. Is not that Government defective in its principles, or corrupt in its administration, which cannot afford equal protection to all its citizens? which builds the safety of one class on the oppression of another? which, as a body, commits crimes for which an individual would suffer death ? Thus, for THE GOOD OF THE PUBLIC, the seaman is plundered not of his
That loves to be mellow,
One jorum in quiet,
My boys, we will try it,
goods, or gold—but of what is infinitely more dear to him, his freedom and his happiness. Hurried with impunity from every thing which ties him to the world, to life, and to felicity-he is perpetually confined to the worst of dungeons, for no crime but that he was a mariner: and if not immolated, a hapless victim, on the altar of war, he only regains his liberty when it can be of no use to him-Enfeebled in body, debased in mind, a burder to society, and a curse to himself, he lives in pain, and dies in wretchedness. From viewing the consequence, let us return to a nearer inspection of the perpetration, of what unbiassed reason must pronounce a crime. Imagine the joy of a crew, returning from a tedious and dangerous voyage, when the distant azure of their native mountains first rises to their delighted view. Each seaman's soul is in his eye. Already he anticipates the happy meeting. Eagerly he nears the wished-for port, and, in imagination, clasps a friend--a parent-a spouse-or a sweetheart-to his throbbing breast. But, mark !-in the midst of his felicity, within hail of happiness, a band of ruffians rush aboard, and drag him to captivity. They, who deserve universal detestation, and severest punishment, are rewarded for their savage atrocity, by the protectors of innocence--the patrons of industry-and the repressors of wrong; while the aggrieved the injured, helpless mariner, who merited his country's protection and esteem, is torn from all that he loves, and consigned to the aggravated horrors of blasted hope, deplorable slavery, and destructive war. Can this be justice ?-Posterity shall hear—but will posterity believe
-that the same country, which gave liberty to Africa, saw with indifference-nay, with approbation, thousands of her sons languishing in unmerited bondage p”
For here I am king,
Let us drink, laugh, and sing, Let no man appear as a stranger;
But show me the ass
That refuses his glass,
By plowing and sowing,
By reaping and mowing,
I have a cellar well stor'd,
And a plentiful board,
I have all things in season,
Both woodcock and pheasant; I am here as Justice of Quorum;
In my cabin's far end,
I've a bed for a friend,
Were it not for my seeding,
You'd get but poor feeding; You would surely be starv'd without me:
I am always content
When I've paid my rent,
Draw close to the table,
My boys, while you're able,
For the jingling of glasses,
All music surpasses,
Let the mighty and great
Roll in splendor and state, I envy them not I declare it;
I'll eat my own lamb,
My own chickens and ham, And shear my own sheep, and I'll wear it.
I have lawns and I've bowers,
I have fruit and I've flowers, The lark is my daily alarmer ;
So my jolly boys, now,
That follow the plough, Drink long life and success to the farmer.
Lies cold and wan in yonder valley;
Grief broke the heart of gentle Sally, Young Valiant was the hero's name,
For early valour fir'd the boy, Who barter'd all his love for fame,
And kill'd the hopes of Sally Roy. Swift from the arms of weeping love,
As rag'd the war in yonder valley, He rush'd his martial power to prove,
While faint with fear sunk lovely Sally. At noon she saw the youth depart,
At eve she lost her darling joy; Ere night the last throb of her heart
Declar'd the fate of Sally Roy. The virgin train in tears are seen,
When yellow moonlight fills the valley, Slow stealing o'er the dewy green,
Towards the grave of gentle Sally! And while remembrance wakes the sigh,
Which weans each feeling heart from joy, The mournful dirge, ascending high,
Bewails the fate of Sally Roy.
THE BOSOM OF LOVE.
TUNE-" The Woodpecker."
And breathe all our cares in her innocent ear,
How precious now glistens the slow falling tear: 'Tis a pleasure from Heaven, a joy from above,
That raises our souls far from scenes that are here. When life's busy scene threatens clouds o'er our head,
And frail fickle fortune now leaves us to mourn, We lean on love's bosom, when friendship is dead,
And blest in our love, we forget we're forlorn: Every care is at rest-all our sorrow is filed, But the thought that love's bosom should from us
be torn. And when in the calm vale of years we recline, On that breast which thro' life's stormy sea with us
strove, How blest is the thought that whene'er we decline,
We decline to the grave on the bosom we love: Of all thy choice blessings, kind Heav'n be it mine,
Thro’ life's varied scene, the soft bosom of love.
WHEN THY BOSOM HEAVES THE SIGH.
When thy bosom heaves the sigh,