Old play-bills, Astley's last year's feats,
And Opera dísputes in sheets,
As these dear records meet his eyes,
Ghosts of departed pleasures rise;
He lays the book upon the shelf,
And leaves the day to spend itself.

To cheat the tedious hours, whene'er
He sallied forth to take the air,
His sympathetic ponies knew

Which way their Lord's affections drew;
And, every time he went abroad,
Sought of themselves the London road;
He ask'd each mile of every clown,
How far they reckon'd it to town?
And still his nimble spirits rise,
Whilst thither he directs his eyes;
But when his coursers back he guides,
The sinking Mercury quick subsides.
A week he had resolved to stay,
But found a week in every day;
Yet if the gentle maid was by,
Faint pleasure glisten'd in his eye;
Whene'er she spoke, attention hung
On the mild accents of her tongue;
But when no more the room she graced,
The slight impression was effaced.
Whene er Sir Gilbert's sporting guests
Retail'd old news, or older jests,
Florio, quite calm, and debonair,
Still humm'd a new Italian air;
He did not even feign to hear them,
But plainly show'd he could not bear them.
Celia perceived his secret thoughts,
But liked the youth with all his faults;
Yet 'twas unlike, she softly said,
The tales of love which she had read,
Where heroes vow'd, and sigh'd, and knelt;
Nay, 'twas unlike the love she felt;

Though when her Sire the youth would blame,
She clear'd his but suspected fame,
Ventured to hope, with faultering tongue,
"He would reform, he was but young;"
Confess'd his manners wrong in part,
"But then-he had so good a heart!"
She sunk each fault, each virtue raised,
And still, where truth permitted, praised;
His interest farther to secure,
She praised his bounty to the poor;
For, votary as he was of art,

He had a kind and melting heart;
Though, with a smile, he used to own
He had not time to feel in town;

Not that he blush'd to show compassion,-
It chanced that year to be the fashion.
And equally the modish tribe,

To Clubs or Hospitals subscribe.

At length, to wake Ambition's flame,
A letter from Bellario came;
Announcing the supreme delight,
Preparing for a certain night,"
By Flavia fair, return'd from France,
Who took him captive at a glance:
The invitations all were given!
Five hundred cards!-a little heaven!-
A dinner first-he would present him,
And nothing, nothing must prevent him.
Whoever wish'd a noble air,
Must gain it by an entree there;
Of all the glories of the town,
'Twas the first passport to renown.
Then ridiculed his rural schemes,

His pastoral shades, and purling streams;
Sneer'd at his present brilliant life,
His polish'd Sire, and high-bred Wife!
Thus doubly to inflame, he tried,
His curiosity, and pride.

The youth, with agitated heart,
Prepared directly to depart;
But, bound in honour to obey
His father, at no distant day,

He promised soon to hasten down,

Though business call'd him now to town;
Then faintly hints a cold proposal-
But leaves it to the Knight's disposal-
Stammer'd half words of love and duty,
And mutter'd much of-" worth and beauty;"
Something of "passion" then he dropt,
"And hoped his ardour"-Here he stopt;
For some remains of native truth.

Flush'd in his face, and check'd the youth;
Yet still the ambiguous suffusion,
Might pass for artless love's confusion.

The doating father thought 'twas strange,
But fancied men like times might change;
Yet own'd, nor could he check his tongue,
It was not so when he was young.
That was the reign of Love, he swore,
Whose halcyon days are now no more.

In that bless'd age, for honour famed,
Love paid the homage Virtue olaim'd;
Not that inspid, daudling Cupid,
With heart so hard, and air so stupid,
Who coldly courts the charms which lie
In Affectation's half closed eye.
Love then was honest, genuine passion,
And manly gallantry the fashion;
Yet pure as ardent was the flame
Excited by the beauteous dame;
Hope could subsist on slender bounties,
And Suitors gallop'd o'er two counties,
The Ball's fair partner to behold,
Or humbly hope she caught no cold.

But mark how much Love's annals mend!
Should Beauty's Goddess now descend;
On some adventure should she come,
To grace a modish drawing-room;
Spite of her form and heavenly air,
What Beau would hand her to her chair?
Vain were that grace, which, to her son,
Disclosed what Beauty had not done:
Vain were that motion which betray'd,
The goddess was no earth-born maid;
If noxious Faro's baleful spright,
With rites infernal ruled the night,
The group absorb'd in play and pelf,
Venus might call her doves herself.

As Florio pass'd the Castle-gate,
His spirits seem to lose their weight;
He feasts his lately vacant mind
With all the joys he hopes to find;
Yet on whate'er his fancy broods,
The form of Celia still intrudes;
Whatever other sounds he hears,
The voice of Celia fills his ears;
Howe'er his random thoughts might fly,
Her graces dance before his eye;
Nor was the obtrusive vision o'er,
Even when he reach'd Bellario's door;
The friends embraced with warm delight,
And Flavia's praises crown'd the night.

Soon dawn'd the day which was to show
Glad Florio what was heaven below.
Flavia, admired wherever known,
The acknowledged Empress of bon-ton,
O'er Fashion's wayward kingdom reigns,
And holds Bellario in her chains:
Various her powers; a wit by day,
By night unmatch'd for lucky play.
The flattering, fashionable tribe,
Each stray bon-mot to her ascribe;
And all her "little senate" own
She made the best Charade in town;
Her midnight suppers always drew
Whate'er was fine, whate'er was new.
There oft the brightest fame you'd see
The victim of a repartee;

For slander's Priestess still supplies
The Spotless for the sacrifice.
None at her polish'd table sit,
But who aspired to modish wit;
The persiflage, th' unfeeling jeer,
The civil, grave, ironic sneer;

The laugh, which more than censure wounds,
Which, more than argument, confounds.
There the fair deed, which would engage
The wonder of a nobler age,
With unbelieving scorn is heard,
Or still to selfish ends referr'd;
If in the deed no flaw they find,
To some base motive 'tis assign'd;
When Malice longs to throw her dart,
But finds no vulnerable part,
Because the Virtues all defend,
At every pass, their guarded friend;
Then by one slight insinuation,
One scarce perceived exaggeration;

Sly Ridicule, with half a word,
Can fix her stigma of-absurd;

Nor care, nor skill, extracts the dart,
With which she stabs the feeling heart;
Her cruel caustics inly pain,

And scars indelible remain.
Supreme in wit, supreme in play,
Despotic Flavia all obey;

Small were her natural charms of face,
Till heighten'd with each foreign grace;
But what subdued Bellario's soul
Beyond Philosophy's control,
Her constant table was as fine
As if ten Rajahs were to dine;
She every day produced such fish as
Would gratify the nice Apicius,
Or realize what we think fabulous
I' th' bill of fare of Heliogabalus.

Yet still the natural taste was cheated,
'Twas deluged in some sauce one hated.

'Twas sauce! 'twas sweetmeat! 'twas confection! All poignancy! and all perfection!

Rich Entremets, whose name none knows,
Ragouts, Tourtes, Tendrons, Fricandeaux,
Might picque the sensuality

O' th' hogs of Epicurus' sty;
Yet all so foreign, and so fine,
"Twas easier to admire, than dine.

O if the Muse had power to tell
Each dish, no Muse has power to spell!
Great Goddess of the French Cuisine!
Not with unhallow'd hands I mean
To violate thy secret shade,
Which eyes profane shall ne'er invade;
No! of thy dignity supreme,

I, with "mysterious reverence," deem!
Or, should I venture with rash hand,
The vulgar would not understand;
None but th' initiated know
The raptures keen thy rites bestow.
Thus much to tell I lawful deem,
Thy works are never what they seem;
Thy will this general law has past,
That nothing of itself shall taste.
Thy word this high decree enacted,
"In all be Nature counteracted!"

Conceive, who can, the perfect bliss,
For 'tis not given to all to guess,
The rapturous joy Bellario found,
When thus his every wish was crown'd.
To Florio, as the best of friends,
One dish he secretly commends;
Then hinted, as a special favour,
What gave it that delicious flavour;
A mystery he so much reveres,
He never to unhallow'd ears
Would trust it, but to him would show

How far true Friendship's power could go.
Florio, though dazzled by the fete,
With far inferior transport eat;
A little warp his taste had gain'd,
Which, unperceived, till now, remain'd;
For, from himself he would conceal
The change he did not choose to feel;
He almost wish'd he could be picking
An unsophisticated chicken;
And when he cast his eyes around,
And not one simple morsel found,
O give me, was his secret wish,
My charming Celia's plainest dish!
Thus Nature, struggling for her rights,
Iets in some little, casual lights,
And Love combines to war with Fashion,
Though yet 'twas but an infant passion;
The practised Flavia tried each art
Of sly attack to steal his heart;
Her forced civilities oppress,
Fatiguing through mere graciousness;
While many a gay, intrepid dame,
By bold assault essay'd the same.
Fill'd with disgust, he strove to fly
The artful glance and fearless eye;
Their jargon now no more he praises,
Nor echoes back their flimsy phrases.
He felt not Celia's powers of face,
Till weigh'd against bon-ton grimace;
Nor half her genuine beauties tasted,
Till with factitious charms contrasted.
Th industrious harpies hover'd round,
Nor peace nor liberty he found;
By force and flattery circumvented,
To play, reluctant, he consented;
Each Dame her power of pleasing tried,
To fix the novice by her side;
Of Pigeons, he the very best,
Who wealth, with ignorance; possest:
But Flavia's rhetoric best persuades,
That Sibyl leads him to the shades;
The fatal leaves around the room,
Prophetic, tell th' approaching doom!

Yet, different from the tale of old,

It was the fair one pluck'd the gold;
Her arts the ponderous purse exhaust;
A thousand borrow'd, staked, and lost,
Wakes him to sense and shame again,
Nor force, nor fraud, could more obtain.
He rose, indignant, to attend
The summons of a ruin'd friend,
Whom keen Bellario's arts betray
To all the depths of desperate play;
A thoughtless youth who near him sate,
Was plunder'd of his whole estate;
Too late he call'd for Florio's aid,
A beggar in a moment made.

And now, with horror, Florio views
The wild confusion which ensues;
Marks how the Dames, of late so fair,
Assume a fierce demoniac air;
Marks where th' infernal furies hold
Their orgies foul o'er heaps of gold;
And spirits dire appear to rise,
Guarding the horrid mysteries;
Marks how deforming passions tear
The bosoms of the losing fair;

How looks convulsed, and haggar'd faces
Chase the scared Loves and frighten'd Grace
Touch'd with disdain, with horror fired,
Celia he murmur'd, and retired.

That night no sleep his eyelids prest,
He thought; and thought 's a foe to rest :
Or if, by chance, he closed his eyes,
What hideous spectres round him rise!
Distemper'd Fancy wildly brings
The broken images of things;

His ruin'd friend, with eye-ball fixt,
Swallowing the draught Despair had mixt,
The frantic wife beside him stands,
With bursting heart, and wringing hands;
And every horror dreams bestow,

Of pining Want, or raving Woe.

Next morn, to check, or cherish thought,
His library's retreat he sought;

He view'd each book, with cold regard,
Of serious sage, or lighter bard;

At length among the motley band,

The Idler fell into his hand;

Th' alluring title caught his eye,

It promised cold inanity:

He read with rapture and surprise,

And found 'twas pleasant, though 'twas wise;

His tea grew cold, whilst he, unheeding,
Pursued this reasonable reading.

He wonder'd at the change he found,
Th' elastic spirits nimbly bound;
Time slipt, without disgust, away,
While many a card unanswer'd lay;
Three papers, reeking from the press,
Three Pamphlets thin, in azure dress,
Ephemeral literature well known,
The lie and scandal of the town;
Poison of letters, morals, time!
Assassin of our day's fresh prime !
These, on his table, half the day,
Unthought of, and neglected lay.
Florio had now full three hours read,
Hours which he used to waste in bed;
His pulse beat Virtue's vigorous tone,
The reason to himself unknown;
And if he stopp d to seek the cause,
Fair Celia's image fill'd the pause.

And now, announced, Bellario's name
Had almost quench'd the new-born flame:
"Admit him," was the ready word
Which first escaped him not unheard;
When sudden to his mental sight,

Uprose the horrors of last night;

His plunder'd friend before him stands,
And-" not at home," his firm commands.
He felt the conquest as a joy

The first temptation would destroy.
He knew next day that Hymen's hand,
Would tack the slight and slippery band,
Which, in loose bondage, would ensnare
Bellario bright and Flavia fair.
Oft had he promised to attend
The Nuptials of his happy friend:
To go to stay-alike he fears;
At length a bolder flight he dares;
To Celia he resolves to fly,

And catch fresh virtue from her eye;
Though three full weeks did yet remain,
Ere he engaged to come again.

This plan he tremblingly embraced,
With doubtful zeal, and uttering haste;
Nor ventured he one card to read,
Which might his virtuous scheme impede;
Each note, he dreaded might betray him,
And shudder'd lest each rap should stay him.
Behold him seated in his chaise ;
With face that self-distrust betrays;
He hazards not a single glance,
Nor through the glasses peeps by chance,
Lest some old friend, or haunt well known,
Should melt his resolution down.
Fast as his foaming coursers fly,
Hyde-Park attracts his half-raised eye;
He steals one fearful, conscious look,
Then drops his eye upon his book.
Triumphant he persists to go;
But gives one sigh to Rotten Row.
Long as he'view'd Augusta's towers
The sight relax'd his thinking powers;
In vain he better plans revolves,
While the soft scene his soul dissolves;
The towers once lost, his view he bends,
Where the receding smoke ascends;
But when nor smoke, nor towers arise,
To charm his heart or cheat his eyes;
When once he got entirely clear
From this enfeebling atmosphere;
His mind was braced, his spirits light,
His heart was gay, his humour bright;
Thus feeling, at his inmost soul,
The sweet reward of self-control.
Impatient now, and all alive,
He thought he never should arrive;
At last he spies Sir Gilbert's trees;
Now the near battlements he sees;
The gates he enter'd with delight,

And, self-announced, embraced the knight:
The youth his joy unfeign'd express'd,
The knight with joy received his guest,
And own'd, with no unwilling tongue,
'Twas done like men when he was young.
Three weeks subducted, went to prove,
A feeling like old-fashion'd love.
For Celia, not a word she said,
But blush'd, "celestial, rosy red!"

Her modest charms transport the youth,
Who promised everlasting truth.
Celía, in honour of the day,
Unusual splendour would display:
Such was the charm her sweetness gave,
He thought her Wedgwood had been seve:
Her taste diffused a gracious air,
And chaste Simplicity was there,

Whose secret power, though silent, great is,
The loveliest of the sweet Penates."
Florio, now present to the scene,
With spirits light and gracious mien,
Sir Gilbert's port politely praises,
And carefully avoids French phrases;
Endures the daily dissertation
On Land-tax, and a ruin'd Nation;
Listens to many a tedious tale

Of poachers, who deserved a jail;
Heard all the business of the Quorum,

Each cause and crime produced before 'em ;
Heard them abuse with complaisance
The language, wines, and wits of France;
Nor did he hum a single air,
While good Sir Gilbert fill'd his chair.

Abroad, with joy and grateful pride
He walks, with Celia by his side:
A thousand cheerful thoughts arise,
Each rural scene enchants his eyes:
With transport he begins to look
On Nature's all-instructive book;
No objects now seem mean, or low,
Which point to HIM from whom they flow.
A berry or a bud excites

A chain of reasoning which delights,
Which, spite of sceptic ebullitions
Proves Atheists not the best Logicians.
A tree, a brook, a blade of grass,
Suggests reflections as they pass,
Till Florio, with a sigh, confest
The simplest pleasures are the best!
Bellario's systems sink in air,
He feels the perfect, good, and fair.
As pious Celía raised the theme
To holy faith and love supreme;
Enlighten'd Florio learn'd to trace
In Nature's God the God of Grace.

In wisdom as the convert grew,
The hours on rapid pinions flew;
When call'd to dress, that Titus wore
A wig the alter'd Florio swore;
Or else, in estimating time,

He ne'er had mark'd it as a crime,
That he had lost but one day's blessing,
When we so many lose, by dressing.

The rest, suffice it now to say,
Was finish'd in the usual way.
Cupid impatient for his hour,
Reviled slow Themis' tedious power,
Whose parchment legends, signing, sealing,
Are cruel forms for Love to deal in.
At length to Florio's eager eyes,
Behold the day of bliss arise!
The golden sun illumes the globe,
The burning torch, the saffron robe,
Just as of old, glad Hymen wears,
And Cupid as of old, appears

In Hymen's train; so strange the case,
They hardly knew each other's face;
Yet both confess'd with glowing heart,
They never were design'd to part;
Quoth Hymen, Sure you're strangely slighted,
At weddings not to be invited;

The reason's clear enough, quoth Cupid,
My company is thought but stupid,
Where Plutus is the favourite guest,
For he and I scarce speak at best.

The self-same sun which joins the twain
Sees Flavia sever'd from her swain:
Bellario sues for a divorce,

And both pursue their separate course.
Oh wedded love; Thy bliss how rare!
And yet the ill-assorted pair,
The pair who choose at Fashion's voice,
Or drag the chain of venal choice,
Have little cause to curse the state;
Who make, should never blame their fate;
Such flimsy ties, say where's the wonder,
If Doctors Commons snap asunder.

In either case, 'tis still the wife,
Gives cast and colour to the life.
Florio escaped from Fashion's school,
His heart and conduct learns to rule;
Conscience his useful life approves ;
He serves his God, his country loves;
Reveres her laws, protects her rights,
And, for her interests, pleads or fights:
Reviews with scorn his former life,
And, for his rescue, thanks his Wife.

IF Heaven has into being deign'd to call -
Thy light, O liberty! to shine on all;
Bright intellectual Sun! why does the ray
To earth distribute only partial day?
Since no resisting cause from spirit flows.
Thy universal presence to oppose;
No obstacles by Nature's hand imprest,
Thy subtle and ethereal beams arrest;
Not sway'd by matter is thy course benign,
Or more direct or more oblique to shine;
Nor motion's laws can speed thy active course,
Nor strong repulsion's powers obstruct thy force;
Since there is no convexity in, mind,
Why are thy genial beams to parts confined?
While the chill North with thy bright ray is blest,
Why should fell darkness half the South invest?
Was it decreed, fair Freedom! at thy birth,
That thou should'st ne'er irradiate all the earth?
While Britain basks in thy full blaze of light,
Why lies sad Afric quench'd in total night?
Thee only, sober Goddess! I attest,
In smiles chastised, and decent graces drest.

To thee alone, pure daughter of the skies
'The hallow'd incense of the Bard should rise!
Not that mad Liberty, in whose wild praise
Too oft he trims his prostituted bays;
Not that unlicensed monster of the crowd,
Whose roar territic bursts in peals so loud,
Deaf'ning the ear of Peace; fierce Faction's tool,
Of rash Sedition born, and mad Misrule;
Whose stubborn mouth, rejecting Reason's rein,
No strength can govern, and no skill restrain;
Whose magic cries the frantic vulgar draw
To spurn at order, and to outrage law;
To tread on grave Authority and Power,
And shake the work of ages in an hour:
Convulsed her voice, and pestilent her breath,
She raves of mercy, while she deals out death:
Each blast is fate; she darts from either hand
Red conflagration o'er the astonish'd land;
Clamouring for peace, she rends the air with noise,
And to reform a part, the whole destroys;
Reviles oppression only to oppress,

And, in the act of murder, breathes redress.
Such have we seen on Freedom's genuine coast,
Bellowing for blessings which were never lost.
Tis past, and reason rules the lucid hour,
And beauteous Order re-assumes his power:
Lord of the bright ascendant may he reign,
Till perfect Peace eternal sway maintain!*

O, plaintive Southerne!f whose impassion'd page
Can melt the soul to grief, or rouse to rage!
Now, when congenial themes engage the Muse,
She burns to emulate thy generous views;
Her failing efforts mock her fond desires,
She shares thy feelings, not partakes thy fires.
Strange power of song! the strain that warms the

heart

Seems the same inspiration to impart ;
Touch'd by th' extrinsie energy alone,

We think the flame which melts us is our own;
Deceived, for genius, we mistake delight,
Charm'd as we read, we fancy we can write.
Though not to me, sweet Bard, thy powers be-
long,

The cause I plead shall sanctify my song.
The Muse awakes no artificial fire,
For Truth rejects what Fancy would inspire:
Here Art would weave her gayest flowers in vain,
The bright invention Nature would disdain,
For no fictitious ills these numbers flow,
But living anguish, and substantial woe,
No individual griefs my bosom melt,
For millions feel what Oronooko felt:
Fired by no single wrongs, the countless hest
I mourn, by rapine dragg'd from Afric's coast.
Perish th' illiberal thought which would debase
The native genius of the sable race!

Perish the proud philosophy which sought
To rob them of the powers of equal thought!
Does then th' immortal principle within
Change with the casual colour of a skin?
Does matter govern spirit? or is mind
Degraded by the form to which 'tis join d?

No: they have heads to think, and hearts to
feel,

And souls to act, with firm, though erring zeal ;
For they have keen affections, kind desires,
Love strong as death, and active patriot fires;
All the rude energy, the fervid flame,
Of high-soul'd passion, and ingenuous shame:
Strong, but luxuriant virtues boldly shoot
From the wild vigour of a savage root.

Nor weak their sense of honour's proud control, For pride is virtue in a Pagan soul;

A sense of worth, a conscience of desert,
A high, unbroken haughtiness of heart;
That self-same stuff which erst proud empi res
sway'd,

Of which the conquerors of the world were made.
Capricious fate of men! that very pride
In Afric scourged, in Rome was deify'd.

No Muse, O Qua-shi! shall thy deeds relate,
No statue snatch thee from oblivion's fate!

Alluding to the riots of London in the year 1780.
Author of the Tragedy of Oronooko.

It is a point of honour among Negroes of a high spirit to die rather than to suffer their glossy skin to bear he mark of a whip. Qua-shi had somehow offended his master, a young planter, with whom he had been bred up in the endearing intimacy of a playfellow. His services had been faithful; his attachment affectionate. The master resolved to

For thou wast born where never gentle Muse
On Valour's grave the flowers of Genius strews;
And thou wast born where no recording page
Plucks the fair deed from Time's devouring rage.
Had Fortune placed thee on some happier coast,
Where polish'd Pagans souls heroic boast,
To thee, who sought'st a voluntary grave,
Th' uninjur'd honours of thy name to save,
Whose generous arm thy barbarous Master spared,
Altars had smoked, and temples had been rear'd.
Whene'er to Afric's shores I turn my eyes,
Horrors of deepest, deadliest guilt arise;

I see, by more than Fancy's mirror shown,
The burning village, and the blazing town:
See the dire victim torn from social life,
The shrieking babe, the agonizing wife!
She, wretch forlorn! is dragg'd by hostile hands,
To distant tyrants sold, in distant lands!
Transmitted miseries, and successive chains,
The sole sad heritage her child obtains!
E'en this last wretched boon their foes deny,
To weep together, or together die.
By felon hands, by one relentless stroke,
See the fond links of feeling Nature broke!
The fibres twisting round a parent's heart,
Torn from their grasp, and bleeding as they part.
Hold, murderers, hold! nor aggravate distress;
Respect the passions you yourselves possess ;
Even you, of ruffian heart, and ruthless hand,
Love your own offspring, love your native land:
Even you, with fond impatient feelings burn,
Though free as air, though certain of return.
Then, if to you, who voluntary roam,

So flear the memory of your distant home,
O think how absence the loved scene endears
To him, whose food is groans, whose drink is tears;
Think on the wretch whose aggravated pains

To exile misery adds, to misery chains.
If warm your heart, to British feelings true,
As dear his land to him as yours to you;
And Liberty, in you a hallow'd flame,
Burns, unextinguish'd, in his breast the same.
Then leave him holy Freedom's cheering smile,
The heaven-taught fondness for the parent soil,
Revere affections mingled with our frame,
In every nature, every clime the same;
In all, these feelings equal sway maintain;
In all, the love of Home and Freedom reign:
And Tempe's vale, and parch'd Angola's sand,
One equal fondness of their sons command.
Th' unconquer'd Savage laughs at pain and toil,
Basking in Freedom's beams which gild his native

soil.

punish him, and pursued him for that purpose. In trying to escape, Qua-shi stumbled and fell; the master fell upon him: they wrestled long with doubtful victory; at length Qua-shi got uppermost, and, being firmly seated on his master's breast, he secured his legs with one hand, and with the other drew a sharp knife: then said, " Master, I have been bred up with you from a child; I have loved you as myself: in return, you have condemned me to a punishment of which I must ever have borne the marks-thus only can I avoid them;" so say ing, he drew the knife with all his strength across his own throat, and fell down dead, without a groan, on his master's body.-Ramsay's Essay on the Treatment of African Slaves.

Besides many valuable productions of the soil, cloths and carpets of exquisite manufacture are brought from the coast of Guinea.

The outraged Goddess, with abhorrent eyes,
Sees Man the traffic, Souls the merchandise!
Man, whom fair Commerce taught with judging
And liberal hand, to barter or to buy,
Indignant Nature blushes to behold,

Degraded Man himself, truck'd, barter'd, sold: Of every native privilege bereft,

[eye,

Yet cursed with every wounded feeling left.
Hard lot! each brutal suffering to sustain,
Yet keep the sense acute of human pain.
Plead not, in reason's palpable abuse,
Their sense of feeling callous and obtuse :
From heads to hearts lies Nature's plain appeal,
Though few can reason, all mankind can feel.
Though wit may boast a livelier dread of shame,
A loftier sense of wrong refinement claim;
Though polish'd manners may fresh wants invent,
And nice distinctions nicer souls torment;
Though these on finer spirits heavier fall,
Yet natural evils are the same to all.

Though wounds there are which reason's force may heal,

There needs no logic sure to make us feel.
The nerve, howe'er untutor'd, can sustain
A sharp, unutterable sense of pain;
As exquisitely fashion'd in a slave,
As where unequal fate a sceptre gave.
Sense is as keen where Gambia's waters glide,
As where proud Tiber rolls his classic tide;
Though verse or rhetoric point the feeling line,
They do not whet sensation, but define.
Did ever wretch less feel the galling chain,
When Zeno proved there was no ill in pain?
In vain the sage to smooth its horror tries;
Spartans and Helots see with different eyes;
Their miseries philosophic quirks deride,
Slaves groan in pangs disown'd by Stoic pride.

When the fierce sun darts vertical his beams,
And thirst and hunger mix their wild extremes;
When the sharp iront wounds his inmost soul,
And his strain'd eyes in burning anguish roll;
Will the parch'd Negro own, ere he expire,
No pain in hunger, and no heat in fire?

For him, when agony his frame destroys,
What hope of present fame or future joys?
For that have Heroes shorten'd nature's date;
For this have Martyrs gladly met their fate;
But him, forlorn, no Hero's pride sustains,
No Martyr's blissful visions soothe his pains;
Sullen, he mingles with his kindred dust,

For he has learn'd to dread the Christian's trust;
To him what mercy can that God display,
Whose servants murder, and whose sons betray?
Savage! thy venial error I deplore,

They are not Christians who infest thy shore.

O thou sad spirit, whose preposterous yoke
The great deliverer Death, at length, has broke!
Released from misery, and escaped from care,
Go, meet that mercy man deny'd thee here.
In thy dark home, sure refuge of th' oppress'd,
The wicked vex not, and the weary rest.
And, if some notions, vague and undefined,
Of future terrors have assail'd thy mind;
If such thy masters have presumed to teach,
As terrors only they are prone to preach;
(For should they paint eternal Mercy's reign,
Where were th' oppressor's rod, the captive's
chain ?)

If, then, thy troubled soul has learn'd to dread
The dark unknown thy trembling footsteps tread;
On HIM, who made thee what thou art, depend;
HE, who withholds the means, accepts the end.
Thy mental night thy Saviour will not blame,
He died for those who never heard his name.
Not thine the reckoning dire of Light abused,
Knowledge disgraced, and Liberty misused;
On thee no awful judge incensed shall sit
For parts perverted, and dishonour'd wit.
Where ignorance will be found the safest plea,
How many learn'd and wise shall envy thee!

*Nothing is more frequent than this cruel and stupid argument, that they do not feel the miseries inflicted on them as Europeans would do.

This is not said figuratively. The writer of these lines has seen a complete set of chains, fitted to every separate limb of these unhappy innocent men; together with instruments for wrenching open the jaws, contrived with such ingenious cruelty as would gratify the tender mercies of an inquisitor.

And thou, White Savage! whether lust of gold Or lust of conquest rule thee uncontroll'd: Hero, or robber-by whatever name

Thou plead thy impious claim to wealth or fame:
Whether inferior mischiefs be thy boast,

A tyrant trader rifling Congo's coast:
Or bolder carnage track thy crimson way,
Kings dispossess'd, and provinces thy prey;
Whether thou pant to tame earth's distant bound
All Cortez murder'd, all Columbus found;
O'er plunder'd realms to reign, detested lord,
Make millions wretched, and thyself abhorr'd-
Whether Cartouche in forests break the law,
Or bolder Cæsar keep the world in awe;
In Reason's eye, in Wisdom's fair account,
Your sum of glory boasts a like amount;
The means may differ, but the end's the same;
Conquest is pillage with a nobler name.
Who makes the sum of human blessings less,
Or sinks the stock of general happiness,

Though erring fame may grace, though false re

nown

His life may blazon or his memory crown;
Yet the last audit shall reverse the cause;
And God shall vindicate his broken laws.

Had those adventurous spirits who explore Through ocean's trackless wastes, the far-sought shore ;

Whether of wealth insatiate, or of power,
Conquerors who waste, or ruffians who devour.
Had these possess'd, O Cook! thy gentle mind,
Thy love of arts, thy love of human kind;
Had these pursued thy mild and liberal plan,
Discoverers had not been a curse to man!
Then, bless'd Philanthropy! thy social hands
Had link'd dissever'd worlds in brothers' bands;
Careless, if colour, or if clime divide ;
Then, loved and loving, man had lived, and died.
Then with pernicious skill we had not known
To bring their vices back and leave our own.

The purest wreaths which hang on glory's shrine, For empires founded, peaceful Penn! are thine; No blood-stain'd laurels crown'd thy virtuous toil, No slaughter'd natives drench'd thy fair-earn'd

soil.

Still thy meek spirit in thy flock* survives,
Consistent still, their doctrines rule their lives;
Thy followers only have effaced the shame
Inscribed by Slavery on the Christian name.
Shall Britain, where the soul of Freedom reigns,
Forge chains for others she herself disdains?
Forbid it, Heaven: O let the nations know
The liberty she loves she will bestow:
Not to herself the glorious gift confined,
She spreads the blessing wide as human kind;
And, scorning narrow views of time and place,
Bids all be free in earth's extended space.

What page of human annals can record
A deed so bright as human rights restored?
O may that god-like deed, that shining page,
Redeem our fame, and consecrate our age!
And let this glory mark our favour'd shore,
To curb false Freedom and the true restore!
And see, the cherub Mercy from above,
Descending softly, quits the sphere of love!
On Britain's Isle she sheds her heavenly dew;
And breathes her spirit o'er the enlighten'd few
From soul to soul the spreading influence steals,
Till every breast the soft contagion feels.
She speeds, exulting, to the burning shore,
With the best message Angel ever bore;
Hark! 'tis the note which spoke a Saviour's birth!
Glory to God on high, and peace on Earth!
She vindicates the power in Heaven adored,
She stills the clank of chains, and sheathes the
sword;

She cheers the mourner, and with soothing hands From bursting hearts unbinds the Oppressor's bands;

Restores the lustre of the Christian name,
And clears the foulest blot that dimm'd its fame.
As the mild Spirit hovers o'er the coast,
A fresher hue their wither'd landscapes boast;
Her healing smiles the ruin'd scenes repair,
And blasted Nature wears a joyous air;
While she proclaims through all their spicy groves,
"Henceforth your fruits, your labours, and your
loves,