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To fit, indulging love's delufive dream,
And fnare the ilver tenants of the ft eam;
Or (nobler toil!) to aim the deauly blow
With dextrous art again the fpotted foe;
O days with youthful daring mark'd! 'twas then
I dragg'd the fhaggy moniter from his den,
And boldly down the rocky mountain's fide,
Hurl'd the grim panther in the foaming tide.
Our healthful sports a daily feast afford,
And ev'n fill found us at the focial board.

Can I forget? Ah me! the fatal day,
When half the vale of peace was swept away!
Th' affrighted maids in vain the Gods implore,
And weeping view from far the happy fhore;
The frantic dames impatient ruffians feize,
And infants fhriek, and clafp their mothers' knees;
With galling fetters foon their limbs are bound,
And groans throughout the noifome bark refound.
Why was I bound! Why did not Whydah fee
Adala gain or death or victory!

No ftorms arife, no waves revengeful roar,
To dash the monsters on our injur'd fhore.
Long o'er the foaming deep to worlds unknown,
By envious winds the bulky veffel's blown,
While by difeafe and chains the weak expire,
Or parch'd endure the flow confuming fire.
Who'd in this land of many forrows live,
Where death's the only comfort tyrants give?
'Tyrants unbleft! Each proud of strict command,
Nor age nor fick nefs holds the iron hand;
Whole hearts, in adamant involv'd, defpife
The drooping females tears, the infants cries,
From whofe ftern brows no grateful look o'erbeams,
Whose blushleis front nor rape nor murder shames.
Nor all I blame, for Naftal, friend to peace,
Thro' his wide pastures bids oppreffion cease;
No drivers goad, no galling fetters bind,
Nor ftern compulfion damps th' exalted mind.
There ftrong Arcona's fated to enjoy
Domestic fweets, and rear his progeny ;
To till his glebe employs Arcona's care,
To Naftal's God he nightly makes his pray'r;
His mind at ease, of Chriftian truths he'll boast-
He has no wife, no lovely offspring loft.
Gay his favannah blooms, while mine appears
Scorch'd up with heat, or moist with blood and tears.
Cheerful his hearth in chilling winter burns,
While to the ftorm the fad Adala mourns.

The Qualers in America have fet free all their Negroes, and allow them wages 86 other fervants.

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Lift high the fcourge, my foul the rack difdains;
I pant for freedom and my native plains!
Shall I his holy prophet's aid implore,
And wait for justice on another shore?
Or rufhing down yon mountain's craggy steep,
End all my forrows in the fullen deep?

A cliff there hangs in yon grey morning cloud,
The dafhing wave beneath roars harfh and loud-
But doubts and fears involve my anxious mind,
The gulf of death once pafs'd what fhore we find?
Dubious, if fent beyond th' expanded main,
This foul fhall feek its native realms again;
Or if in gloomy mills condemn'd to lie,
Beyond the limits of yon arching fky.
A better profpect oft my fpirit cheers,
And in my dreams the vale of peace appears,
And fleeting vifions of my former life,
My hoary fire I clafp, my long-loft wife,
And oft í kifs my gentle babes in fleep,
Till with the founding whip I'm wak'd to weep.

Lift high the fcourge, my foul the rack difdains;
I pant for freedom and my native plains.

Chiefs of the earth, and monarchs of the sea,
Who vaunt your hardy ancestors were free;
Whofe teachers plead th' opprefs'd and injur'd's caufe,
And prove the wifdom of your prophet's laws;
To force and fraud if juice must give place,
You're dragg'd to flavery by fome rougher race,
Some rougher race your flocks fhall force away,
Like Afric's fons your children must obey;
The very Gods that view our constant toil,
Shall fee your offspring till a ruder foil,
The pain of thirst and pinching hunger know,
And all the torments that from bondage flow,
When, far remov'd from Chriftian worlds we prove,
The fweets of peace, the lafting joys of love.

But hark! the whip's harth echo thro' the trees!
On every trembling limb fresh horrors feize-
Alas! 'tis morn, and here I fit alone-

Be ftrong, my foul, and part without a groan!
Ruffians proceed! Adala ne'er fhall fwerve,
Prepare the rack, and ftrain each aching nerve!

Lift high the fcourge, my foul the rack difdains; I pant for freedom and my native plains. Thou God, who gild'ft with light the rifing day! Who life difpenfeft by thy genial ray! Will thy flow vengeance never, never fall, But undistinguifh'd favour fhine on all ? O hear a fuppliant wretch's laft, fad pray'r! Dart fierceft rage! infect the ambient air;

This pallid race, whose hearts are bound in steel,
By dint of fuffering teach them how to feel.
Or to fome defpot's lawlefs will betray'd,
Give them to know what wretches they have made!
Beneath the lafh let them refign their breath,
Or court, in chains, the clay-cold hand of death.
Or, worst of ills! within each callous breast,
Cherish uncurb'd the dark internal pest,
Bid AV'RICE fwell with undiminish'd rage,
While no new worlds th' accursed thirst affuage;
Then bid the monsters on each other turn,
The fury paffions in diforder burn;

Bid DISCORD flourish, civil crimes increase,
Nor one fond wish arife that pleads for peace-
Till with their crimes in wild confufion hurl'd,
They wake t' eternal anguish in a future world.

EVENING, or the FUGITIVE. An American Eclogue.

[By the fame Gentleman.]

MOMBAZE, ZAMBOIA with a Child.



AY whither, wand'rer, points thy cheerless way,
When length'ning fhades announce the close of day?
In yon wild waste no friendly roof thou'lt find,
The haunt of ferpents, and the savage kind.—
And fure rememb'rance mocks me, or I trace
In thine the femblance of Zamboia's face?
Yet scarce thyfelf! for in thy alter'd eye,
I read the records of hard destiny.-
From thy rack'd bosom fighs that ceaseless flow,
A man befpeak thee, exercis'd in woe.

Say, then, what chance has burst thy rigid chains,
Has led thee frantic o'er these diftant plains?
What potent forrows can thy peace infest?
What crimes conceal'd prey on thy anxious breast?


No crimes this heart infeft, this hand defile,
Or frantic drive me o'er a foreign foil.

A murder'd wife, and wrongs unmatch'd I mourn,
And buried joys, that never fhall return!
If, then, thou'rt tempted by the traitor's meed,
Take this poor life, and profper by the deed!

• This Eclogue was written during the American war.



Not the rich produce of Angola's fhore, Not all the mifer's heap'd and glittering flore, Not all that pride would grafp, or pomp difplay, Should tempt this hand the wretched to betray. No traitors dwell within this bleft domain, The friends of peace we live, a guileless train. Grief dims thy eye, or gladly would'st thou fee Thy lov'd Mombaze yet furvives in me. Can't thou forget? I taught thy youth to dare The fylvan herd, and wage the defp'rate war; Can't thou forget? One common lot we drew, With hee inchain'd, a captive's fate I knew: Dirut me not, but unreferv'd disclose The anxious tale that in thy bofom glows; To part our griefs is oft to mitigate, And focial forrows blunt the darts of fate.


Dear to my fight that form, and doubly dear
Thy well-known accents meet Zamboia's ear.
Oh! had I died, and left the name of flave
Deep, deep entomb'd within an early grave!
Oh had died, e'er ruthlefs fates conftrain,
With thee enthrall'd, to cross the western main !
Oh! to have met a glorious death in arms,
And ne'er beheld Melinda's fatal charms!
Time would be fhort, and memory would fail,
To dwell diftinctly on the various tale.-
Tedious to tell what treach'rous arts were try'd,
To footh the fmart of fill revolting pride.
I liv'd, and lov'd-Then kifs'd the fatal chain;
No joy but one to cheer a life of pain.-
Yet witness bear, thou dear departed ghoft,
That lonely rov'ft thy Gambia's facred coaft!
How fweet the toil that met the morning's ray,
How light the labour that o'er-lasted day!
The reed-built hovel, and the fcanty fare,
Imperial blifs could give, Melinda there!
Soft was my pillow, on thy gentle breast,
When o'er-prefs'd Nature droop'd in want of reft!
And if a rebel tear difgrac'd my eye,
Thine was the tear, and thine the bursting figh.
Blifs I could boaft, unenvied had it pass'd,
But blifs too great for hapless flaves to laft.

A wretch, who banish'd from his native clime,
Defil'd with many a black and monstrous crime,
Prefided o'er us, and with iron hand
Held ravage fway o'er all the fervile band,

In him each hellish pafon rudely glow'd,
And cruelty in him most cruel fhew'd.
Him luft infernal, one fad ev'ning, led
T' invade the chaftenefs of my marriage bed:
I chanc'd t'approach-the caitiff I furpriz'd-
My wife preferv'd, and had his guilt chatis'd,
While full with vengeance boil'd my wounded heart-
But chance referv'd him for a bafer part.
Meanwhile o'erjoy'd that vice e'en once had fail'd,
I blefs'd the gods that innocence prevail'd.

The baffled villain, now a foe profefs'd,
Rolls fcenes of blood within his rank'ling breast;
With coward arts he forg'd a crafty tale;
And hands unrighteous poize the partial scale.
Imputed crimes to cruth the weak fuffice,
Hearfay is guilt, and damning fact furmise.
Where uncurb'd will ufurps the place of laws,
No friendly pleader takes the wretch's caufe.
Our tyrant's fears each want of proof fupply'd,
We stand condemn'd, unquestion'd, and untry'd.

Oh! had the grief and fhame been all my own,
And the black vengeance lit on me alone!
But harfher fates a harder curfe decreed;
Thefe eyes were doom'd to fee Melinda bleed.
I faw her by relentless ruffians bound,
The brandifh'd fcourge inflict the mortal wound,
Her tender frame abus'd, and mangled o'er,
I faw her welt'ring in a flood of gore.

The murd'rous fcene had foon a dreadful close-
And do I live! and can I speak my woes!
Her pregnant womb no longer could fuftain
The public fhame, and agony of pain;
A birth abortive robb'd her of her breath,
And pangs convulfive feal'd her eyes in death.
One only pledge my weary foul detains,
This hapless infant, all that now remains ;
The mournful image of my once lov'd wife,
And ties me down awhile to hated life.
Elfe this bold hand fhould liberty rettore,
And my rapt fpirit feck a happier fhore.

Thro' devious paths with timid hafte we fly,
Where blue mountains meet the bending sky.-.
Nor ferpents haunts I dread, nor defarts drear,
The maftor-favage, Man, alone I fear.



Since from our native realms compell'd to part,
Such pointed forrows have not touch'd my heart.
Infatiate plunderers! could it not fuffice
To rend, inhuman, all the focial ties!


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