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The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;
Methinks a genius might the plan purfue.
I (can you pardon my prefumption?) I—
No wit, no genius, yet for once will try.
Various the papers, various wants produce,
The wants of fafhion, elegance, and use:
Men are as various; and, if right I scan,
Each fort of paper represents fome 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.

Are Copy Paper of inferior worth;

Less priz'd, more useful, for your desk decreed,
Free to all pens, and

prompt at every


The wretch whom Av'RICE bids to pinch and spare,
Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,
Is Coarfe Brown Paper, fuch as pedlars choose
To wrap up wares which better men will use.
Take next the MISER'S contraft, who deftroys
Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys.
Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout,
He's a true Sinking Paper, past all doubt.
The retail POLITICIAN's anxious thought
Deems this fide always right, and that ftark nought;
He foams with cenfure, with applause he raves-
A dupe to rumours, and a tool of knaves;
He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim,
While fuch a thing as Foolfcap has a name.

The hafty GENTLEMAN, whofe blood runs high,
Who picks a quarrel, if you ftep 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 fame clafs you'll find,
They are the mere Waste Paper of mankind.

Obferve the MAIDEN, innocently fweet;
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 inftance more, and only one I'll bring;*
'Tis the GREAT MAN, who fcorns a little thing;
Whose thoughts, whofe deeds, whose maxims are his own,
Form'd 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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My forrows I mark'd on the wave-soften❜d sand; Loud blew the wild winds, and the white billows foam'd, And threw the falt fleeces of furf on the ftrand.

Faft flow'd in the tide, yet regardless I ftood,
And felt the white billows advance to my feet;
The fand-marks of forrow were loft in the flood,
And the spray of the ftorm on my bare bofom beat.

In the story of woe not a thought could I trace,
Not the wreck of a word, and I faid to the fea,
“Ah, if thus you the ftory of woe can efface,
"Your bounty might fure be extended to me.

"If e'er I remain on thy billow-beat shore,

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"No friend near at hand, in false pity to fave, My woes, like their story, would quickly be o'er, "And both owe to thee, foaming Ocean, a grave.”

The billows roll'd on, when something within,

More ftrong than the Ocean, thus feem'd to reply, "Man no murder fhall do; e'en in forrow 'tis fin;" I felt the command, and obey'd with a figh.



(The Lines in Italics excepted.)

RANSPIERC'D with many a ftreaming wound, The Negro lay, invoking death: His blood o'erflow'd the reeking groundHe, gafping, drew his languid breath.

His fable cheek was ghaftly, cold;

Convulfive groans their prifon broke: His eyes in fearful horror roll'd,

While thus the wretch his anguish spoke :
"Accurfed be the Chriftian race;
Infatiate is their iron foul:

To hunt our fons-their fav'rite chace-
They goad and lafh without controul.

"Torn from our frantic mother's breast,

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

The keeneft woe, and fierceft pains..

"From fun to fun the Negro toils;
No fmiles approve his trufty care;
And, when th' indignant mind recoils,
His doom is whips, and black despair.

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Yet, Chriftians 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 curfes hurl-but no! forbear.
Let Chriftians wield Oppreffion's rod,
Spread hatred, woe, and wild defpair :

"While I a nobler course pursue,

Yes, let me die as I would live! Yes, let me teach this Chriftian crew, The dying Negro can forgive.

"And if, indeed, that pow'r be thine, O Chriftian God! in mercy move

Thy people's hearts, by pow'r divine,
To juftice, gentleness, and love."

The fuff'rer ceas'd, death chill'd his veins;
His mangled limbs grew fliff 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—



Let partial prejudice a while be mute,
That foft humanity may gain her fuit:
She fues-Oh, do not let her fue in vain-
She fues for mortals, languifhing in pain:
Ah! let not then our fecret feuds prevent
This heav'nly cause, this merciful intent.
What if, my friend, we fometimes difagree
About the ins, and outs, of Ministry,
Or partial, each in critic judgment fit,
On Fox or Sheridan, on Burke or Pitt;
Yet in this one great point we all agree-
There's no excufe 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 ftop a traffic-the difgrace of Man:
A bleffing then fhall their endeavours wait,
Who ftrive a Brother's pain to mitigate.







London Taylor (as 'tis faid,)

and thread,

Sleeve linings, pockets, filk, and twist,
And all the long expenfive lift,

With which their uncouth bills abound,
Though rarely in the garment found;
By thefe and other arts in trade,
Had foon a pretty fortune made;
And did what few had ever done,
Left thirty thousand to his fon.

The fon, a gay young fwagg'ring blade,
Abhorr'd the very name of trade,
And left reflection fhould be thrown
On him, refolv'd to leave the town,

And travel where he was not known.
In gilded coach and liv'ries gay,
To Oxford firft 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 filver hilted fword;

Though fhort and small, 'twas vaftly neat,
The fight was deem'd a perfect treat.
Beau Banter begg'd to have a look,
But when the fword in hand he took,

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