Hark! he answers-wild tornadoes, Deem our nation brutes no longer, Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard, and stronger Than the colour of our kind. Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted powers, Prove that you have human feelings, Ere you proudly question ours! PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS. Video meliora proboque, I OWN I am shock'd at the purchase of slavės, And fear those who buy them and sell them, are knaves; What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and groans, 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! purpose to answer you, out of my mint; But I can assure you I saw it in print. A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest, He was shock'd, sir, like you, and answer'd, 'Oh no! What! rob our good neighbour! I pray you don't go; 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! Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I could, But staying behind will do him no good. If the matter depended alone upon me, His apples might hang, till they dropp'd from the tree; 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, And the fresh-blowing breeze never fail'd. In the steerage a woman I saw, Such at least was the form that she wore, Whose beauty impress'd me with awe, Ne'er taught me by woman before. She sat, and a shield at her side Shed light, like a sun on the waves, And, smiling divinely, she cried 'I go to make freemen of slaves.'Then raising her voice to a strain The sweetest that ear ever heard, Thus swiftly dividing the flood, To a slave-cultured island we came, Where a demon, her enemy, stoodOppression his terrible name. In his hand, as the sign of his sway, And the moment the monster expired, At what such a dream should betide? But soon my ear caught the glad news, Which served my weak thought for a guideThat Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves For the hatred she ever has shown To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves, Resolves to have none of her own. |