Yes, their keen sorrows are the sweets we blend Yes, 'tis their anguish mantles in the bowl, And there are men, who leaning on the laws, What they have purchased claim a right to hold Cursed be the tenure, cursed its cruel cause And there are men, with shameless front have said, That Nature form'd the Negroes for disgrace; That on their limbs subjection is display'd The doom of slavery stampt upon their face.' Send your stern gaze from Lapland to the Line, Then why suppose yourselves the chosen few, 'Tis sordid Interest guides you; bent on gain, Ah! how can He, whose daily lot is grief, Can he believe the tongue that speaks of God › For when he sees the female of his heart, And his loved daughters torn by lust away, sons, the poor inheritors of smart His -Had he Religion, think ye he could pray? Alas! He steals him from the loathsome shed, What time moist midnight blows her venom'd breath, And musing, how he long has toil'd and bled, Drinks the dire Balsam of consoling Death! Haste, haste, ye winds, on swiftest pinions fly, Tell him his wrongs bedew a Nation's eye, Say that in future, Negroes shall be blest, enjoy; Be neither sold, nor purchased, nor oppress'd, No grief shall wither, and no stripes destroy. Say that fair Freedom bends her holy flight Then shall proud Albion's crown, where laurels twine, Torn from the bosom of the raging sea, Boast 'midst the glorious leaves, a gem divine, MONODY, ADDRESS'D TO MR. TICKELL. Ir ever for fictitious grief My soul a transient sorrow knew; Sure tenderest sympathy is due To Thee, from whom each cherish'd bliss is fled, Who mourn'st by day and night, thy own Maria dead! O Tickell! in the murmuring gale, Oft have I found thy plaintive voice prevail; Shook the cold pearl-drops from the bending thorn; Or when, at close of day, To the lone vale I took my way, The sad vibration of faint Echo's breath, Then all dejected, have I paus'd to hear, Sincere as erst thy Father's Parent proved, He wove a cypress wreath, and pour'd the verse, That soothed the Poet's shade, and hung upon his herse. Ah! let me take my simple reed, And seek the moonlight mead; Or where 'mongst rocks the headlong stream, Flashes the lucid beam; Woo calm Reflection in her sober bower, As pondering at the midnight hour, She flings her solace on each passing wind, That wafts the heavenly balm to heal the wounded mind. So may her mighty spell, Thy desolating anguish quell, So may'st thou quit at length the Forest's gloom; O'er the rude cliffs the tempest fly, And rouse to sudden rage the howling main. * Addison. |