Stalks a pale Defpot, and around him throws
The fcourge that wakes-that punishes the

tear.

O'er the far beach the mournful murmurs run,
And join the rude yell of the tumbling tide,
As faint they ply their labours in the fun,

To feed the luxury of British Pride!
E'en at this moment, on the burning gale
Floats the weak wailing of the female
tongue;

And can that fex's foftnefs nought avail-
Muft naked Woman fhriek amid the

throng?

O ceafe to think, my Soul! what thousands die
By fuicide, and toil's extreme defpair;
Thoufands, who never rais'd to Heaven the
eye,

Thou lands, who fear'd no punishment but
there.

Are Drops of Blood the Horrible Manure
That fills with lufcious juice the teeming
Cane?

And matt our Fellow Creatures thus endure,
For traffic vile, th' indignity of pain?

Yes, their keen forrows are the fweets we
blend

'Tis fordid int'reft guides you; bent on gain,
In profit only can ye reafon find;
And pleasure too-But urge no more in vain
The selfish subject to the Social Mind.
Ah! how can be whose daily lot is grief,
Whofe mind is vilified beneath the rod,
Suppofe his Maker has for him relief,
Can he believe the tongue that fpeaks of
GOD?

For when he fees the female of his heart,
And his lov'd daughters, torn by lust away,
His fons, the poor inheritors of smart—

-Had be Religion, think ye be could pray? Alas! He fteals him from the loathfome fhed,

What time moift midnight blows her
venom'd breath,

And mufing, how he long has toil'd and bled,
Drinks the dire balfam of confoling death!
Hafte, hafte, ye winds, on swifteft pinions fly,
Ere from this world of mifery he go,
Tell him his wrongs bedew a Nation's Eye,
Tell him, BRITANNIA blushes for bis woe!
Say, that in future Negroes fhall be bleft
Rank'd e'en as Men, and Men's just rights
enjoy;

With the green bev'rage of our Morning Be neither Sold, nor Purchas'd, nor Opprefs'd, No griefs fhall wither, and no ftripes destroy !

Meal,

The while to love meek Mercy we pretend,

Or for fictitious ills affect to feel.

Yes, 'tis their anguish mantles in the bowl,

Their fighs excite the Briton's drunken joy; Thole Ign rant Suff 'rers know not of a SouL,

That we enlightened may its hopes destroy. And there are Men, who, leaning on the Laws,

What they have purchas'd, claim a right to
hold-

Curs'd be the tenure, curs'd its cruel caufe-
-FREEDOM's a dearer Property than
Gold!

And there are Men with fhamclefs front have
faid,

That Nature form'd the NEGROES for difgrace;

That on their limbs fubjection is display'd—

The doom of Slavery flampt upon their face. Send your ftern gaze from Lapland to the Line,

And ev'ry region's natives fairly fean,

Their forms, their force, their faculties, combine,

And own the vast Variety of Man!

Then why fuppofe Yourselves the chofen few
Todeal Oppreffion's poifon'd arrows round,
To gall with iron bonds the weaker crew,
Enforce the labour and infli&t the wound?

Say, that Fair Freedom bends her holy flight
To cheer the Infant, and confole the Sire;
So fhall be, wond'ring, prove, at last, delight,
And in a throb of ecttafy expire.
Then fhall proud Albion's Crown, where
Laurels twine,

Torn from the bosom of the raging fea,
Boaft 'midft the glorious leaves a gem divine,
The radiant gem of Pure Humanity.
DELLA CRUSCA.

ANNA MATILDA 10 DELLA CRUSCA.
ODE.

THOU!

O
Who from "a wildernefs of Suns"
Canft ftoop to where the low brook runs!
Thro' space with rapid comets glow ;—
Or mark where, foft, the fnow-drops grow!
O Thou!

Whofe burning pen now rapture paints!
Then moralizes, cold, with Saints !
Now trembling ardors can infufe-
Then feems as dipp'd in cloister'd dews-
O fay! thy Being quick declare,
Art thou a fon of Earth or Air?
Celestial Bard! though thy sweet song
Might to a Seraph's strains belong,
Its wondrous beauty and its art
Can only touch, not change my heart.

Se

So Heav'n-fent lightning powerless plays, "
And wanton throws its purple rays;
It leaps thro' night's scarce pervious gloom
Attracted by the rofe's bloom,

Th' illumin'd fhrub then quiv'ring round,
It seems each scented bud to wound;
Morn thakes her locks, and fee the rofe
In renovated beauty blows!
Smiles at the dart which past away,
And flings her perfume on the day.
Thy lightning pen 'tis thus I greet,
Fearless its fubtile point I meet;
Ne'er fhall its fpells my fad heart move
From the calm ftate it vows to love.
All other blifs I've prov'd is vain—
All other blifs is dafh'd with pain.
My waift with myrtles has been bound,
My brow with laurels has been crown'd;
Love has figh'd hopeless at my feet,
Love on my couch has pour'd each fweet;
All these I've known, and now I fly
With thee, INDIFFERENCE, to die!

Nor is thy gift" dull torpid eafe,"
The mind's quick powers thou doft not
freeze:

No! bleft by Thee, the foul expands,
And darts o'er new-created lands;
Springs from the confines of the earth
To where new fyftems struggle into birth;
The germ of future worlds beholds,
The fecrets of dark space unfolds;
Can watch how far th' Erratic runs,
And gaze on DELLA CRUSCA'S funs;
In fome new orb can meet "his ftarry mail,"
And him, on earth unknown, in Heaven
with transport hail.

ANNA MATILDA.

To ANNA MATILDA.

NOR will I more of Fate complain;

For I have liv'd to feel thy strain ;
To feel its fun-like force divine,
Swift darting through the Clouds of Woe,
Shoot to my foul a fainted glow.
Yet, yet, MATILDA, fpare to shine!
One moment be the Blaze fuppreft!
Left from this Clod my Spirit spring,
And borne by Zephyr's trembling Wing,
Seek a new Heaven upon thy Breaft.
But fay, does calm Indifference dwell
On the low Mead, or Mountain fwell,
Or at grey Evening's folemn gloom,
Bend her Bofom to the Tomb?

Or when the weak Dawn's orient Rofe,
In filv'ry Foliage deck'd, appears;
Tell me, if perchance she goes

To the fresh Garden's proud array,
Where, doubtful of the coming day,
Each drooping Flow'ret fheds tranflucent
Tears.

Ah! tell me, tell me where,
For thou shalt find me there,
Like her own Son, in vestment pure,
With deep difguife, of fmile fecure :
So fhall I once thy Form defcry,
For once, hold converfe with thine Eye.
Vain is the thought, for at thy fight,
Soon as thy potent Voice were found,
Could I conceal the vast delight,
Could I be tranquil at the found,
Could I reprefs quick Rapture's start,
Or hide the bursting of my Heart?
Let but thy Lyre impatient feize
Departing Twilight's filmy Breeze,
That winds th' inchanting Chords among,
In ling ring labyrinth of Song:
Anon, the amorous Bird of Wor
Shall fteal the Tones that quiv'ring flow,
And with them footh the fighing Woods,
And with them charm the flumb'ring Floods;
Till, all exhausted by the Lay,
He lean in filence on the spray,
Drop to his idol Flow'r beneath,

And, 'midft her Blushes, cease to breathe.
Warn'd by his Fate, 'twere furely well,
To fhun the fafcinating Spell;

Nor ftill, prefumptuous, dare to fling
My rude Hand o'er the Sounding String;
As though I fondly would afpire,
To match MATILDA's Heavenly Fire.
Yet may I fometimes, far remote,
Hear the lov'd pathos of her Note,
And though the Laurel I refign,
O may the blifs of TASTE be mine!
DELLA CRUSCA.

I

TO DELLA CRUSCA.
Hate the Elegiac lay—

Chufe me a measure jocund as the day!
Such days as near the ides of June

Meet the Lark's elab'rate tune,
When his downy fringed breaft
Ambitious on a cloud to rest

He foars aloft; and from his gurgling throat
Darts to the earth the piercing note—
Which foftly falling with the dews of morn
(That blefs the fcented pink, and fnowy thorn)
Expands upon the Zephyr's wing,
And wakes the burnish'd finch, and linnet
fweet to fing.

And be thy lines irregular, and free!
Poetic chains fhould fall before fuch bards as

thee,

Scorn

A parent's grief, a lover's fondeft figh; Preferve that graceful figure from the tomb, Or keep thee longer from thy native sky? Beauty may caufe, but love may cure thy Alas! they could not !-Let the pitying tear