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Fixed their tyrants' habitations
Where his whirlwinds answer—no.

By our blood in Afric wasted,

Ere our necks received the chain;
By the miseries we have tasted,

Crossing in your barks the main;
By our sufferings, since ye brought us

To the man-degrading mart;
All sustained by patience, taught us

Only by a broken heart:

Deem our nation brutes no longer,

Till some reason ye shall find
Worthier of regard, and stronger

Than the colour of our kind.
Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings

Tarnish all your boasted powers,
Prove that you have human feelings,

Ere you proudly question ours!

PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS.

Video meliora proboque
Deteriora sequor.—

I Own I am shocked at the purchase of slaves,
And fear those, who buy them and sell them, are
knaves;

\Vhat I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and

groans,
Is almost enough to draw pity from stones.

I pity them greatly, but I must be mum,
Por how could we do without sugar and rum?
Especially sugar, so needful we see?
\Vhat give up our deserts, our coffee, and tea I

Besides, if we do, the French, Dutch, and Danes,
"Will heartily thank us, no doubt, for our pains;
If we do not buy the poor creatures, they will,

And tortures and groans will be multiplied still.

\ If foreigners likewise would give up the trade,

Much more in behalf of your wish might be said;
But, while they get riches by purchasing blacks,
Pray tell me why we may not also go snacks?

Your scruples and arguments bring to my mind
A story so pat, you may think it is coined,
On purpose to answer you out of my mint;
But I can assure you I saw it in print.

A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest,
Had once his integrity put to the test;
His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob,
tnd asked him to go and assist in the job.

He was shocked, sir, like you, and answered—" Oh

no! What! rob our good neighbour! I pray you don't

go;

Besides the man's poor, his orchard's his bread,
Then think of his children, for they must be fed."

"You speak very fine, and you look very grave,
But apples we want, and apples we'll have;
If you will go with us, you shall have a share,
If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear."

They spoke, and Tom pondered—" I see they will go:
Poor man! what a pity to injure him so!
Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I cou'd,
But staying behind will do him no good.

"If the matter depended alone upon me,
His apples might hang till they dropt from the tree;
But, since they will take them, I think I'll go too,
He will lose none by me, though I get a few."

His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease,
And went with his comrades the apples to seize;
He blamed and protested, but joined in the plan:
He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man,

THE

NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM.

A Nightingale, that all day long
Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark;
So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent—

"Did you admire my lamp, quoth he,
As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song;
For 'twas the self-same po'wer divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night."

TOL. III. K

The songster heard his short oration,
And warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.

Hence jarring sectaries may learn
Their real interest to discern;
That brother should not war with brother,
And worry and devour each other;
But sing and shine by sweet consent,
Till life's poor transient night is spent,
Respecting in each other's case
The gifts of nature and of grace.

Those Christians best deserve the name,. Who studiously make peace their aim; Peace, both the duty and the prize Of him that creeps and him that flies.

ON A GOLDFINCH

STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE.
I.

Time was when I was free as air,
The thistle's downy see;l my fare,

My drink the morning dew;
I perched at will on every spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,

My strains for ever new.

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