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And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot

shatter'd navy of Spain, And the little Revenge herself went down by the

island crags To be lost evermore in the main.

“Skins may differ, but affection
Dwells in white and black the same."-Cowper.

'TWAS

WAS twelve o'clock, not twelve at night,

But twelve o'clock at noon;
Because the sun was shining bright

And not the silver moon.
A proper time for friends to call,

Or Pots, or Penny Post;
When, lo! as Phoebe sat at work,

She saw her Pompey's ghost!
Now when a female has a call

From people that are dead,
Like Paris ladies she receives

Her visitors in bed.
But Pompey's spirit would not come

Like spirits that are white,
Because he was a Blackamoor,

And wouldn't show at night! But of all unexpected things

That happen to us here, The most unpleasant is a rise In what is

very

dear. So Phæbe screamed an awful scream

To prove the seaman's text, That after black appearances,

White squalls will follow next.

'Oh, Phæbe dear! Oh, Phæbe dear!

Don't go to scream or faint; You think because I'm black I am

The Devil, but I ain't!

Behind the heels of Lady Lambe

I walked while I had breath; But that is past, and I am now

A-walking after Death!

“No murder, though, I come to tell

By base and bloody crime;
So, Phoebe dear, put off your fits

To some more fitting time.
No Coroner, like a boatswain's mate,

My body need attack,
With his round dozen to find out

Why I have died so black.

"One Sunday, shortly after tea,

My skin began to burn As if I had in my inside

A heater, like the urn.
Delirious in the night I grew,

And as I lay in bed,
They say I gathered all the wool

You see upon my head.

“His Lordship for his Doctor sent,

My treatment to begin ;-
I wish that he had called him out,

Before he called him in!
For though to physic he was bred,

And passed at Surgeon's Hall,
To make his post a sinecure

He never cured at all!

“The Doctor looked about my breast

And then about my back,

And then he shook his head and said,

*Your case looks very black.' And first he sent me hot cayenne

And then gamboge to swallow, But still my fever would not turn

To Scarlet or to Yellow!

"With madder and with turmeric,

He made his next attack;
But neither he nor all his drugs

Could stop my dying black.
At last I got so sick of life,

And sick of being dosed,
One Monday morning I gave up

My physic and the ghost!

“Oh, Phæbe dear, what pain it was

To sever every tie! You know black beetles feel as much

As giants when they die. And if there is a bridal bed,

Or bride of little worth, It's lying in a bed of mould,

Along with Mother Earth.

“Alas! some happy, happy day,

In church I hoped to stand, And like a muff of sable skin

Receive your lily hand. But sternly with that piebald match

My fate untimely clashes, For now, like Pompe-double-i, I'm sleeping in my ashes!

!

“And now farewell! a last farewell!

I'm wanted down below,
And have but time enough to add

One word before I go-
In mourning crape and bombazine

Ne'er spend your precious pelf,
Don't go in black for me—for I

Can do it for myself.

“Henceforth within my grave I rest,

But Death, who there inherits, Allowed my spirit leave to come,

You seemed so out of spirits; But do not sigh, and do not cry,

By grief too much engrossed, Nor for a ghost of color, turn

The color of a ghost!

"Again, farewell, my Phoebe dear!

Once more a last adieu!
For I must make myself as scarce

As swans of sable hue.
From black to gray, from gray to nought

The shape began to fade-
And, like an egg, though not so white,

The Ghost was newly laid !

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