Lord! make me understand thy law; For here I learn how Jesus died, Then let me love my Bible more," COMPASSION AND FORGIVENESS. I HEAR the voice of wo; A brother mortal mourns: My eyes with tears, for tears o'erflow, My heart his sighs returns. I hear the thirsty cry; The famish'd beg for bread: And shall not wrath relent, Touch'd by that humble strain, My brother crying, "I repent, Nor will offend again?" How else on sprightly wing, Can Hope bear high my pray'r SCOTT SECTION V. THE SLAVE. WIDE o'er the tremulous sea, The moon spread her mantle of light; On the forecastle Maratan stood; His sighs pass'd unheard in the gale. "Ah wretch "" in wild anguish he cried, "From country and liberty torn! Ah, Maratan, would thou hadst died, Ere o'er the salt waves thou wert borne! Thro' the groves of Angola I stray'd, Love and hope made my bosom their home; There I talk'd with my favourite maid, Nor dreamt of the sorrow to come. From the thicket the man-hunter sprung, He was deaf to the voice of despair. Flow, ye tears, down my cheeks ever flow; Drink deep of the stream of my heart: But hark! o'er the silence of night Slow o'er the smooth ocean she glides, As the mist that hangs light on the wave; Oh, Maratan! haste thee,' she cries, Now sinking amidst the dim ray, To-morrow the white man, in vain, My shackles I plunge in the main, And rush to the realms of the brave !"* * It may not be improper to remind the young reader, that the anguish of the unhappy negroes, on being separated forever from their country and dearest connexions, with the dreadful prospect of perpetual slavery, frequently becomes so exquisite as to produce derangement of mind, and suicide. SECTION VI. THE GOLDFINCHES. ALL in a garden, on a currant bush, Here, blest with ease, and in each other blest, With early songs they wak'd the neighb'ring groves; Till time matur'd their joy, and crown'd their nest With infant pledges of their faithful loves. And now, what transport glow'd in either's eye! But ah! what earthly happiness can last? The most ungentle of his tribe was he; No gen❜rous precept ever touch'd his heart: With concord false, and hideous prosody, He scrawl'd his task, and blunder'd o'er his part. On mischief bent, he mark'd with rav'nous eyes, Where, wrapt in down, the callow songsters lay; Then rushing, rudely seiz'd the glitt'ring prize, And bore it in his impious hands away! But how shall I describe, in numbers rude, The pangs for poor, Chrysomitris decreed, When, from her secret stand, aghast, she view'd The cruel spoiler perpetrate the deed? "O grief of griefs!" with shrieking voice she cried, "What sight is this that I have liv'd to see! O! that I had in youth's fair season died, From all false joys, and bitter sorrows free. Was it for this, alas! with weary bill, Was it for this I pois'd th' unwieldy straw? For this I bore the moss from yonder hill, Nor shunn'd the pond'rous stick along to draw? Was it for this, I pick'd the wool with care, Intent with nicer skill our work to crown; For this, with pain, I bent the stubborn hair, And lin❜d our cradle with the thistle's down? Was it for this my freedom I resign'd, And ceas'd to rove at large from plain to plain; For this I sat at home whole days confin'd, To bear the scorching heat, and pealing rain? Was it for this my watchful eyes grow dim? Thus sung the mournful bird her piteous tale :- JAGO. |