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Fleecy locks, and black complexion,
Cannot forfeit nature's claim ; Skins may differ, but affection
Dwells in white and black the same. Why did all-creating Nature
Make the plant for which we toil ? Sighs must fan it, tears must water,
Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters, iron-hearted,
Lolling at your jovial boards ; Think how many backs have smarted
For the sweets your cane affords. Is there, as ye sometimes tell us,
Is there One, who reigns on high ? Has He bid you buy and sell us,
Speaking from His throne the sky ? Ask Him, if your
knotted scourges, Matches, blood-extorting screws, Are the means that duty urges,
Agents of His will to use ? Hark! He answers,— wild tornadoes,
Strewing yonder sea with wrecks, Wasting towns, plantations, meadows,
Are the voice with which He speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations
Afric's sons should undergo, Fixed their tyrants’ habitations
Where His whirlwinds answer- -No. By our blood in Afric wasted,
Ere our necks received the chain; By the miseries that we tasted,
Crossing in your barks the main; By our sufferings since ye brought us
To the man-degrading mart;
Only by a broken heart:
Deem our nation brutes no longer
Till some reason ye shall find
Than the colour of our kind.
Tarnish all your boasted powers,
Ere you proudly question ours !
WHERE London's column, pointing at the skies,
The devil was piqued such saintship to behold,
Roused by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep
Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,
“ Live like yourself,” was soon my lady's word ; And lo! two puddings smoked upon the board.
Asleep and naked as an Indian lay, An honest factor stole a gem away : He pledged it to the knight; the knight had wit, So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. Some scruple rose, but thus he eased his ought, “I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat; Where once I went to church I'll now go twiceAnd am so clear too of all other vice.”
The tempter saw his time; the work he plied ; Stocks and subscriptions pour on every side, Till all the Demon makes his full descent In one abundant shower of cent per cent, Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole, Then dubs director, and secures his soul.
Behold Sir Balaam now a man of spirit, Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit; What late he called a blessing, now was wit, And God's good providence a lucky hit, Things change their titles, as our manners turn. His counting-house employed the Sunday morn: Seldom at church ('twas such a busy life), But duly sent his family and wife. There (so the devil ordained) one Christmas-tide My good old lady catched a cold and died.
A nymph of quality admires our knight, He marries, bows at court, and grows polite: Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair) The wellbred cuckolds in St. James's air. In Britain's senate he a seat obtains, And one more pensioner St. Stephen gains. My lady falls to play ; so bad her chance, He must repair it; takes a bribe from France; The House impeach him ; Coningsby harangues ; The court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs.
Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own,
EDWIN AND EMMA.
Far in the windings of a vale,
Fast by a sheltering wood,
A humble cottage stood.
Beneath her mother's eye,
To see her blest, and die.
Gave colour to her cheek;
When May's sweet mornings break.
This charmer of the plains ;
To deck our lily deigns.
Each maiden with despair ;
Yet knew not she was fair ;
A soul that knew no art;
Shone forth the feeling heart.
A mutual flame was quickly caught,
Was quickly too revealed ;
Which virtue keeps concealed.
Did love on both bestow !
Where fortune proves a foe.
His sister, who, like envy formed,
Like her in mischief joyed, To work them harm, with wicked skill,
Each darker art employed.
The father too, a sordid man,
Who love nor pity knew, Was all unfeeling as the rock
From whence his riches grew.
Long had he seen their mutual flame,
And seen it long unmoved ; Then with a father's frown at last
He sternly disapproved.
In Edwin's gentle heart, a war
Of differing passions strove ;
Yet could not cease to love.
Denied her sight, he oft behind
The spreading hawthorn crept,
Where Emma walked and wept.
Oft, too, in Stanmore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moonlight shade, In sighs to pour his softened soul,
The midnight mourner strayed.