SONNET ADDRESSED TO. HENRY COWPER, Esa. On his emphatical and interesting delivery of the Defence of WARREN HASTINGS, Efq. in the House of Lords. COWPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard, Legends prolix delivers in the ears (Attentive when thou read'ft) of England's Peers, Let verfe at length yield thee thy juft reward. Thou waft not heard with drowsy difregard, Expending late on all that length of plea Thy gen'rous pow'rs, but filence honour'd thee Mute as e'er gaz'd on Orator or Bard. Thou art not voice alone, but haft befide Both heart and head; and could'ft with mufic sweet Of attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renown'd Forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, prais'd not for utt'rance meet Of others' speech, but magic of thy own. THE MORNING DREAM. "TWAS in the glad feafon of spring, I dream'd what I cannot but fing, Far hence to the weftward I fail'd, In the fteerage a woman I saw, Such at leaft was the form that she wore, Shed light like a fun on the waves, Then raifing her voice to a strain She fung of the flave's broken chain Some clouds which had over us hung Thus fwiftly dividing the flood To a flave-cultur'd ifland we came, Where a Demon, her enemy, stoodOppreffion his terrible name. In his hand, as the fign of his sway, A fcourge hung with lafhes he bore, And flood looking out for his prey From Africa's forrowful fhore. But foon as approaching the land And the moment the monfter expir'd Heard fhouts that afcended the sky From thousands with rapture inspir'd. Awaking, how could I but mufe At what fuch a dream fhould betide? But foon my ear caught the glad news For the hatred the ever has shown VERSES PRINTED AT THE BOTTOM OF THE YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY OF THE TOWN OF NORTHAMPTON, Dec. 21, 1787. Pallida Mors æquo pulfat pede pauperum tabernas Pale Death with equal foot ftrikes wide the door WHILE thirteen moons faw smoothly run All these, life's rambling journey done, Was man (frail always) made more frail Did famine, or did plague prevail, No; these were vigorous as their fires, Like crowded foreft-trees we ftand, Green as the bay-tree, ever green, The gay, the thoughtless have I feen; Read, ye that run, the awful truth |