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at every

The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;
Methinks a genius might the plan pursue.

I (can you pardon my prefumption?) -
No wit, no genius, yet for once will try.
Various the papers, various wants produce,
The wants of fashion, elegance, and use:
Men are as various; and, if right I scan,
Each sort of paper represents some man.
Pray note the Fop-half powder and half lace,
Nice as a bandbox were his dwelling place;
He's the Gilt Paper, which apart you store,
And lock from vulgar hands in the scrutoire.
MechanICS, SERVANTS, FARMERS, and so forth,
Are Copy Paper of inferior worth;
Less priz'd, more useful, for your desk decreed,
Free to all pens,
and prompt

The wretch whom Av’RIC E bids to pinch and spare,
Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,
Is Coarse Brown Paper, such as pedlars choose
To wrap up wares which better men will use.
Take next the Miser's contrast, who destroys
Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys.
Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout,
He's a a true Sinking Paper, past all doubt.
The retail POLITICIAN's anxious thought
Deems this fide always right, and that stark nought;
He foams with censure, with applause he raves
A dupe to rumours, and a tool of knaves;
He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim,
While such a thing as Fool/cap has a name.
The hasty GENTLEMAN, whose blood runs high,
Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry;
Who can't a jeft, a hint, a look endure;
What is he? Why, Touch-paper, to be sure.
What are our Poets, take them as they fall,
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all?
Them and their works, in the same class you'll find,
They are the mere Waste Paper of mankind.

Observe the MAIDEN, innocently sweet;
She's fair White Paper, an unfully'd sheet,
On which the happy man, whom fate ordains,
May write his name, and take her for his pains.
One instance more, and only one I'll bring;
'Tis the GREAT Man, who scorns a little thing;
Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims are his own,
Formd on the feelings of his heart alone :
True genuine Royal Paper is his breast,
Of all the kinds most precious, pureft, best.

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N the brink of the beach, as I filently roam'd,

My sorrows I mark'd on the wave-foften'd sand; Loud blew the wild winds, and the white billows foam'd,

And threw the salt fleeces of surf on the strand.

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Fast flow'd in the tide, yet regardless I stood,
And felt the white billows advance to


feet; The sand-marks of sorrow were lost in the flood,

And the spray of the storm on my bare bosom beat. In the story of woe not a thought could I trace,

Not the wreck of a word, and I said to the sea, Ah, if thus you the story of woe can efface,

“ Your bounty might sure be extended to me. “ If e'er I remain on thy billow-beat shore,

No friend near at hand, in false pity to save, “ My woes, like their story, would quickly be o'er,

" And both owe to thee, foaming Ocean, a grave." The billows rolld on, when something within,

More strong than the Ocean, thus seem'd to reply, • Man no murder shall do; e'en in sorrow 'tis fin;"

I felt the command, and obey'd with a figh.



(The Lines in Italics excepted.)

TRANSPIERC'D with many a streaming wound,

The Negro lay, invoking death:
His blood o'erflow'd the reeking ground-

He, gasping, drew his languid breath.
His fable cheek was ghastly, cold;

Convulsive groans their prison broke : His eyes in fearful horror rolld,

While thus the wretch his anguish spoke : 66 Accurfed be the Christian race;

Insatiate is their iron foul:
To hunt our sonstheir fav’rite chace-

They goad and lash without controul. « Torn from our frantic mother's breast,

We bear our tyrant's galling chains ; Deny'd e'en death, that lulls to rest

The keenest woe, and fiercest pains.. “ From fun to sun the Negro toils;

No smiles approve his trusty care ;
And, when th' indignant mind recoils,

His doom is whips, and black despair..
Yet, Christians teach faith, hope, and love :

Their God of mercy oft implore;
But can barbarians mercy prove,

Or a benignant God adore ? “ Hear then my groans, oh, Christian God!

Thy curses hurl_but no! forbear. Let Christians wield Oppreffion's rod,

Spread hatred, woe, and wild despair : While I a nobler course pursue,

Yes, let me die as I would live! Yes, let me teach this Christian crew,

The dying Negro can forgive. " And if, indeed, that pow'r be thine,

O Christian God! in mercy move

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Thy people's hearts, by pow'r divine,

To justice, gentleness, and love."
The suff'rer ceas'd, death chill'd his veins;

His mangled limbs grew ftiff and cold;
Yet whips nor racks inflict the pains

Men feel who barter Man for Gold.


The Petition concerning the Slave Trade,

Because it was thought a Party Matter.


PIRIT of party! baneful Demon, cease-

.Foe to all public, and domestic peace :
Let partial prejudice a while be mute,
That soft humanity may gain her suit:
She fues—Oh, do not let her sue in vain-
She sues for mortals, languishing in pain :
Ah! let not then our secret feuds prevent
This heav'nly cause, this merciful intent.
What if, my friend, we sometimes disagree
About the ins, and outs, of Ministry,
Or partial, each in critic judgment lít,
On Fox or Sheridan, on Burke or Pitt;
Yet in this one great point we all agree-
There's no excuse for wanton cruelty:
Then if our mutual endeavours join'd
Can ease this wretched part of human kind,
Let's freely do the little that we can,
To stop a traffic—the disgrace of Man:
A blessing then shall their endeavours wait,
Who strive a Brother's pain to mitigate.








London Taylor (as 'tis faid,)

By buckram, canvas, tape, and thread,
Sleeve línings, pockets, silk, and twist,
And all the long expensive lift,
With which their uncouth bills abound,
Though rarely in the garment found;
By these and other arts in trade,
Had soon a pretty fortune made;
And did what few had ever done,
Left thirty thousand to his son.

The son, a gay young swaggʻring blade,
Abhorr'd the very name of trade,
And left reflection should be thrown
On him, resolv'd to leave the town,
And travel where he was not known.
In gilded coach and liv'ries gay,
To Oxford first he took his way;
There beaux and belles his taste admire,
His equipage and rich attire ;
But nothing was so much ador'd
As his fine silver hilted sword;
Though short and small, 'twas vastly neat,
The light was deem'd a perfect treat.
Beau Banter begg'd to have a look,

But when the sword in hand he took,

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