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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;
All sustained by patience, taught us

Only by a broken heart:

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 !

SIR BALAAM.

BY POPE.

WHERE London's column, pointing at the skies,
Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies;
There dwelt a citizen of sober fame,
A plain good man, and Balaam was his name:
Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;
His word would pass for more than he was worth.
One solid dish his weekday meal affords,
An added pudding solemnised the Lord's :
Constant at church, and 'Change; his gains were sure,
His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.

The devil was piqued such saintship to behold,
And longed to tempt him, like good Job of old:
But Satan now is wiser than of yore,
And tempts by making rich, not making poor.

Roused by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep
The surge, and plunge his father in the deep ;
Then full against his Cornish lands they roar,
And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore.

Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,
He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes :

“ 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.

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Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own,
His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown:
The devil and the king divide the prize,
And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies.

EDWIN AND EMMA.

BY MALLET.

Far in the windings of a vale,

Fast by a sheltering wood,
The safe retreat of health and peace,

A humble cottage stood.
There beauteous Emma flourished fair

Beneath her mother's eye,
Whose only wish on earth was now

To see her blest, and die.
The softest blush that nature spreads

Gave colour to her cheek;
Such orient colour smiles through heaven,

When May's sweet mornings break.
Nor let the pride of great ones scorn

This charmer of the plains ;
That sun which bids their diamonds blaze

To deck our lily deigns.
Long had she fired each youth with love,

Each maiden with despair ;
And though by all a wonder owned,

Yet knew not she was fair ;
Till Edwin came, the pride of swains,

A soul that knew no art;
And from whose eyes, serenely mild,

Shone forth the feeling heart.

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A mutual flame was quickly caught,

Was quickly too revealed ;
For neither bosom lodged a wish

Which virtue keeps concealed.
What happy hours of heart-felt bliss

Did love on both bestow !
But bliss too mighty long to last,

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 ;
His heart, which durst not disobey,

Yet could not cease to love.

Denied her sight, he oft behind

The spreading hawthorn crept,
To snatch a glance, to mark the spot

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.

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