EXECUTION

Of RICHARD SMITH, in Philadelphia, for the mur der of Capt. JOHN CARSON-August 10, 1816.

Tho' justice be thy plea,

Consider this;-that in the course of justice,
None of us should see salvation.

We do pray for mercy,

And that same pray'r doth teach us all
To render the deeds of mercy.

I.

Shakespeare,?

THE dreadful tragedy is o'er,

The fatal die is cast!

Pardon to guilt has barr'd the door,
And Mercy stands aghast!
II.

Mercy-the child of heav'nly love-
Whence oceans freely flow,
Blest theme of seraph-tongues above,
And angel tongues below
III.

Mercy-the only hope of man,

The rainbow of his fears;

That smiles away, since floods began,
The deluge of his tears-
IV.

Mercy-thou soul reviving pow'r!

When SMITH implor'd thy grace,

वे

In that tremendous awful hour,

Why turn away thy face?

V.

Has Justice so vindictive grown,
That Mercy cannot spare ?

Can naught but blood for blood atone ?:
Can death, with death, repair?
VI.

Methinks I hear that cherub voice,
Responding to my lay-

Pity and pardon were my choice,
But vengeance fill'd the way.
VII.

Foul was the crime-of deepest die

Abhorr'd by all that livē;

Still my prerogative and cry,

Is always to forgive."

VIH.

If deep contrition mark the soul,

No matter what the crime,

Tho' large as space from pole to pole, And multiplied as time

IX.

My arms the penitent embrace,
But cannot always save,
Unless when justice takes my place,
I step beyond the grave: }

X

There still my sympathies infold,
There Justice claims no more;
There bliss unceasing, joys untold,
Around the victim pour:
XI

For there an ADVOCATE is found,
Who once himself was slain;
The flood that issued from his wound,
Can wash away the stain.

XII.

He knows what human passions are→→→
In love how fierce they rage—
Pities the orphan's lost despair-
His tenderness of age:

XIII

And tho' the horrid act he hates,
Forgiveness can bestow,
And bid heav'n's everlasting gates
Call home repentant woe.?'

On the MASSACRE of the AMERICAN PRISONERS, at
Dartmoor Prison, England, 1815.

HOW burns the blood within our veins,
To hear the tragic tale;

The crime whith Dartmoor Prison stains,
Would turn a demon pale!

Infuriate see your passions rise,
While you recite the deed;
And vengeance flashes from your eyes,
At ev'ry word you read.

'Tis manly, patriotic, just,

And cherish well the flame,

Till mingling with your mother dust,
Remember Shortland's name.

Inscribe it on the blacken'd scroll
Of infamy and guilt;

And with infernal acts enrol

The deeds-the blood he spilt,

Cold hearted murd'rer! see him stand,
And hear him give the word!
Swift dart the balls, at his command,
And thrusts the fulgent sword!

Unarm'd and helpless, see them fall,
Americans are these!

Slain while they yet for quarters call,
And murder'd on their knees!

Detested coward! is it thus
You conquer highborn foes?
The only vict'ry gain'd o'er us,
As well your nation knows

And long may British valor boast
One trophy of the war;

Let Shortland's triumph be your toast,
And spread your glory far.

But while you revel with delight,
O'er bloody scenes like these,
Know that a GOD beholds the sight,
And dread his just decrees.

Know that Americans are brave,
When vengeance cries pursue;
No foe can meet them on the wave,
No pow'r on earth subdue;

If man to man, and gun to

gun,

And ship to ship they close,
The battle instantly is won,
And "ours" the vanquish'd foes.

So, should another war commence,
T' avenge our country's wrongs,
While unaton'd this foul offence,
To freemen it belongs,

Just retribution to bestow
Upon these savage slaves-

To let their royal masters know
Columbia "rules the waves"