Yes, their keen sorrows are the sweets we blend
With the green beverage of our morning meal,
The while to love meek mercy we pretend,
Or for fictitious ills affect to feel.

Yes, 'tis their anguish mantles in the bowl,
Their sighs excite the Briton's drunken joy;
Those ignorant suff'rers know not of a soul,
That we enlighten'd may its hopes destroy.

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
Freedom's a dearer property than gold!

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,
And every region's natives fairly scan,
Their forms, their force, their faculties combine,
And own the vast variety of Man!

Then why suppose yourselves the chosen few,
To deal oppression's poison'd arrows round,
To gall with iron bonds the weaker crew,
Enforce the labour, and inflict the wound?

'Tis sordid Interest guides you; bent on gain,
In profit only can ye reason find;
And pleasure too : but urge no more in vain,
The selfish subject to the social mind.

Ah! how can He, whose daily lot is grief,
Whose mind is vilified beneath the rod,
Suppose his Maker has for him relief?

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,
Ere from this world of misery he go,

Tell him his wrongs bedew a Nation's eye,
Tell him, Britannia blushes for his woe!

Say that in future, Negroes shall be blest,
Rank'd e'en as Men, and Men's just rights

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
To cheer the infant, and console the sire;
So shall He wondering prove at last delight,
And in a throb of extacy expire.

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,
The radiant gem of pure Humanity!

MONODY,

ADDRESS'D TO MR. TICKELL.

Ir ever for fictitious grief

My soul a transient sorrow knew;
If sometimes I have heaved a sigh,
But to behold the virgin leaf
Of the lost Lily withering die;

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;
When the wet fingers of the morn,

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,
Brought to my heart the dirge of Death.

Then all dejected, have I paus'd to hear,
And felt a kindred
pang sincere;

Sincere as erst thy Father's Parent proved,
When for the * Friend he loved,

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;
Nor thus for ever dwell upon the sainted Tomb.
O think, when wandering on the shore,
Thou mark'st with musing eye,

O'er the rude cliffs the tempest fly,

And rouse to sudden rage the howling main.
Think, She thou lovest, has left a world,
Where jarring elements are hurl'd,

* Addison.