Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS. Video meliora proboque, Deteriora sequor. I OWN I am shock'd at the purchase of slaves, And fear those, who buy them and sell them, are knaves; [groans, What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and Is almost enough to draw pity from stones. I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, What, give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea! 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 youngster at school, more sedate than the rest, He was shock'd, sir, like you, and answer'd"Oh no! [don't go ; What! rob our good neighbour! I pray you 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 ponder'd-"I see they will go: Poor man! what a pity to injure him so! "If the matter depended alone upon me, [tree; His apples might hang till they dropp'd from the 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 join'd in the plan: He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man. THE MORNING DREAM. 'Twas in the glad season of spring, Far hence to the westward I sail'd, While the billows high lifted the boat, And the fresh, blowing breeze never fail❜d. In the steerage a woman I saw, Such at least was the form that she wore, Shed light, like a sun on the waves, Then raising her voice to a strain The sweetest that ear ever heard, She sung of the slave's broken chain, Wherever her glory appear'd. Some clouds, which had over us hung, Thus swiftly dividing the flood, To a slave-cultured island we came, From Africa's sorrowful shore. But soon as approaching the land, That goddess-like woman he view'd, The scourge he let fall from his hand, With blood of his subjects imbrued. I saw him both sicken and die, And the moment the monster expired, Heard shouts, that ascended the sky, From thousands with rapture inspired. Awaking, how could I but muse At what such a dream should betide? To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves, THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN Showing how he went farther than he intended, JOHN GILPIN was a citizen Of credit and renown, John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, To-morrow is our wedding day, My sister, and my sister's child, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we. He soon replied, I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done. . |