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The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;
MECHANICS, SERVANTS, FARMERS, and fo forth,
Less priz'd, more useful, for your desk decreed,
prompt at every
The wretch whom Av'RICE bids to pinch and spare,
The hafty GENTLEMAN, whofe blood runs high,
What are our POETS, take them as they fall,
Obferve the MAIDEN, innocently fweet;
One inftance more, and only one I'll bring;*
True genuine Royal Paper is his breast,
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,
In the story of woe not a thought could I trace,
"If e'er I remain on thy billow-beat shore,
"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.
BY MISS HOLCROFT.
(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 :
To hunt our fons-their fav'rite chace-
"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;
Yet, Chriftians teach faith, hope, and love:
But can barbarians mercy prove,
Or a benignant God adore?
"Hear then my groans, oh, Christian God!
"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,
The fuff'rer ceas'd, death chill'd his veins;
ON A FRIEND REFUSING TO SIGN
The Petition concerning the Slave Trade,
Because it was thought a Party Matter.
BY S. W. RYLEY.
PIRIT of party! baneful Demon, cease—
Let partial prejudice a while be mute,
PRICE ONE PENNY
THE ADVENTURES OF
London Taylor (as 'tis faid,)
Sleeve linings, pockets, filk, and twist,
With which their uncouth bills abound,
The fon, a gay young fwagg'ring blade,
And travel where he was not known.
His equipage and rich attire;
But nothing was so much ador'd
Though fhort and small, 'twas vaftly neat,