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66 Then, while he bound the ribbands on my brow,

• He talk'd of captains kind, and gen’rals good; a Said, a whole nation would my

fame avow, “ And BOUNTY callid the purchase of my blood. « Yet I refus'd that BOUNTY, I disdain’d

“ TO SELL my service in a RIGHTEOUS CAUSE ; 56 And such to my dull fense it was explain’d,

« The cause of Monarchs, Justice, and the Laws. « The rattling drums beat loud, the fifes began,

My King and Country seem'd to ask my aid ; “ Thro' ev'ry vein the thrilling ardour ran,

“ I left my humble cot, my village maid. « O hapless day! torn from my Lucy's charms,

“ I thence was hurried to a scene of ftrife; « To painful marches and the din of arms,

« The wreck of reason, and the waste of life. « In loathfome vefsels now with crowds confind,

« Now led with hosts to flaughter in the field; « Now backward driven, like leaves before the wind,

« Too weak to stand, and yet asham’d to yield. « Till oft repeated victories inspir'd,

6. With tenfold fury the indignant foe; « Who ruthless still advanc'd, as we retir'd,

« And laid our boasted, proudest honours low, 6. Thro' frozen desarts then compelld to fly,

« Our braveft legions moulder'd fast away; « Thousands of wounds and ficknefs left to die,

• While hov'ring ravens mark'd them for their prey. « Ah ! sure remorse THEIR savage hearts must rend,

u Whose felfish, defp'rate frenzy could decree, 66 That in one mass of murder man should blend,

« Who sent the SLAVES to fight against the FREE. « Unequal conteft !-at fair Freedom's call,

« The lowlieft hind glows with celestial fire; « She rules, directs, pervades, and conquers all,

“ And ARMIES at her facred glance expire.

« Then be this warfare of the world accurs'.

« The son now weeps not on the father's bier ; « But grey-haird Age, for Nature is revers’d,

“ Drops o'er his children's grave an icy tear." Thus having spoke, ---by varying passions tost,

He reach'd the threshold of his Parent's shed, Who knew not of his fate, yet mourn'd him loft

AMIDST THE NUMBER OF THE UNNAM'D DEAD. Soon as they heard his well-remember'd voice, A ray of rapture

chas'd habitual care ; « Our Henry lives, we may again rejoice,"

And Lucy sweetly, blush’d, for she was there BUT WHEN HE ENTER'D IN SUCH HORRID,GUISE,

His mother shriek’d, and dropp'd upon the floor; His father look'd to Heav'n with streaming eyes,

And Lucy funk, alas! to rise no more. O may this tale, which agony must close,

Give deep contrition to the self-CALL'D GREAT ; And shew The Poor how hard the lot of those, Who shed their blood for MINISTERS OF STATE!

ANON.

To the memory of Mr Burgh, a learned School-master, and

the ingenious and laborious author of Political Disquifitions, and the Dignity of Human Nature.

BY CAPTAIN THOMPSON.

BENEATH this fod, conceald from mortal eyes,

. What is this dignity, the sophifts fcan? « The noblest work of God an honest man."

Instructions to a Porter.

! to whose care I've now consign'd

My house's entrance, caution use, While you discharge your trust, and mind

Whom you admit, and whom refuse. Let no fierce passions enter here,

Passions the raging breast that storm, Nor fcornful pride, nor servile fear,

Nor hate, nor envy's pallid form. Should av'rice call-you'll let her know

Of heap'd up riches I've no store, And that she has no right to go

Where Plutus has not been before. Lo!

on a visit hither bent High-plum'd ambition stalks about; But should he enter, sweet content

Will give me warning-shut him out. Perhaps the Mufe may pass this way,

And tho' full oft I've bent the knee, And long invok'd her magic sway,

Smit with the love of harmony; Alone tho' she might please-yet still

I know she'll with ambition come; With luft of fame my heart she'll fill,

She'll break my relt-I'm not at home. There is a rascal, old and hideous,

Who oft (and sometimes not in vain) Close at my gate has watch'd afliduous,

In hopes he might admittance gain : His name is care--if he should call,

Quick out of doors with vigour throw him,

And tell the miscreant once for all,

I know him not, I ne'er will know him.

Perhaps then Bacchus, foe to care,

May think he'll sure my favour win;
His promises of joy are fair,

But falfe-you must not let him in.
But welcome that sweet power! on whom

The young desires attendant move;
Still fluih'd with beauty's vernal bloom,

Parent of bliss, the Queen of Love.
O! you will know her, fhe has stole

The lustre of my Delia's eye ;
Admit her, hail her--for my soul

Breathes double life when she is nigh.

If then stern wisdom at my gate

Should knock, with all her formal train,
Tell her I'm busy-she may wait,
Or, if she chooses--call again.

BEDINGFIELD.

Charity.-(The Slave Trade.j

EAV'N speed the canvass gallantly unfurld,

To
To give the pole the produce of the sun,
And knit th' unfocial climates into one :-
Soft airs and gentle heavings of the wave,
Impel the fleet whose errand is to fave,
To succour wasted regions, and replace
The smile of opulence in forrow's face.
Let nothing adverse, nothing unforeseen,
Impede the bark that ploughs the deep ferene,

Chargʻd with a freight transcending in its worth,
The gems of India, nature's rareft birth,
That flies like Gabriel on his Lord's commands,
An herald of God's love, to pagan lands.-
But ah! what wish can prosper, or what pray’r,
For merchants rich in cargoes of despair,
Who drive a loathsome traffic, gadge, and span,
And buy the muscles and the bones of man?
The tender ties of father, husband, friend,
All bonds of nature in that moment end ;
And each endures, while yet he draws his breath,
A stroke as fatal as the scythe of death.
The fable warrior, frantic with regret
Of her he loves, and never can forget,
Loses in tears the far-receding shore,
But not the thought that they must part no more ;
Depriv'd of her and freedom at a blow,
What has he left that he can yet forego ?
Yes, to deep sadness sullenly resign'd,
He feels his body's bondage in his mind,
Puts off his gen'rous nature, and, to suit
His manners with his fate, puts on the brute.

Oh most degrading of all ills that wait
On man, a mourner in his best estate!
All other forrows virtue may endure,
And find submission more than half a cure;
Grief is itself a med'cine, and bestow'd
T'improve the fortitude that bears the load,
To teach the wand'rer, as his woes encrease,
The path of wisdom, all whose paths are peace.
But lav'ry!- Virtue dreads it as her grave,
Patience itself is meanness in a slave :
Or if the will and sovereignty of God
Bid suffer it awhile, and kiss the rod,
Wait for the dawning of a brighter day,
And snap the chain the moment when you may.
Nature imprints upon whate'er we fee,
That has a heart and life in it-be free;

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