And o'er the salt sea wave prono ince your doom.
But Gods are just, and oft the stroke forbear,
To plunge the guilty in tenfold despair.
Lift high the scourge, my soul the rack disdains;
I pant for freedom and my native plains!
With limbs benumb'd my poor companions
lie;
Oppress'd by pain and want the aged sigh;
Thro' reedy huts the driving tempest pours,
Their festering wounds receive thesickly show'rs;
In madd'sing draughts our lords their senses
And doom their slaves to stripes and death in
sleep;
Now, while the bitter blasts surround my head,
To times long past my restless soul is led,
Far, far beyond the azure hills, to groves
Of ruddy fruit, where beauty fearless roves -
O blissful seats! O self-approving joys!
Nature's plain dictates! ignorance of vice!
Oguiltless hours! Ourcares and wants were few,
No arts of luxury or deceit we knew.
Our labor, sport - to tend our cottage care,
Or from the palm the luscious juice prepare;
To sit indulging love's delusive dream,
And snare the silver tenants of the stream;
Or (nobler toil) to aim the deadly blow
With dext'rous art against the spotted foe;
O days with youthful daring mark'd! 'twas then
I dragg'd the shaggy monster from his den,
And boldly down the rocky mountain's side
Hurl'd the grim panther in the foaming tide.
Our healthful sports a daily feast afford,
And ev'n still found us at the social board.
Can I forget, ah me! the fatal day,
When half the vale of peace was swept away!
Th affrighted maids in vain the gods implore,
And weeping view from far the happy shore;
The frantic dames impatient ruffians seise,
And infants shriek, and clasp their mothers knees;
With galling fetters soon their limbs are bound,
Andgroansthroughoutthe noisome bark resound.
was I bound! why did not Whydah sce
Why
Ardala gain or death or victory!
No storms arise, no waves revengeful roar,
To dash the monsters on our injur'd shore.
Long o'er the foaming deep to worlds unknown,
By envious winds the bulky vessels blown,
While by disease and chains the weak expire,
Or parch'd endure the slow consuming fire.
Who 'din this land of many sorrows live,
Where death's the only comfort tyrants give?
Tyrantsunblest! Each proud of strict cominand,
Nor age nor sickness holds the iron hand;
Whose hearts, in adamant involv'd, despise
From whose stern brows no grateful look e'er
beams,
[shames.
Whose blushless front nor rape nor murder
Nor all I blame; for Nastal, friend to peace,
Thro' his wide pastures bids oppression cease";
No drivers goad, no galling fetters bind,
No stern compulsion damps th' exalted mind.
There strong Arcona's fated to enjoy
Domestic sweets, and rear his progeny;
To till his glebe employs Arcona's care,
To Nastal's God he nightly makes his pray'r;
His mind atease, of Christian truthshe'll boast-
He has no wife, no lovely of spring lost.
Gay his savannah blooms, while mine appears
Scorch'd up with heat, or
Cheerful his hearth in chilling winter burns,
While to the storm the sad Adala unourus.
Lift high the scourge, my soul the rack disdains,
I pant for freedom and my native plains!
Shall I his holy Prophet's aid implore,
And wait for justice on another shore?
Or, rushing down yon mountain's craggy steep,
End all my sorrows in the sullen deep?
A cliff there hangs in yon grey morning cloud,
The dashing wave beneath roars harsh and lond
But doubts and fears involve my anxious mind,
The gulphofdeathonce pass'd, what shore wefind;
Dubious, if sent beyond th' expanded inain,
This soul shall seek its native realms again:
Or if in gloomy mists condemn'd to lie,
Beyond the limits of yon arching sky.
A better prospect oft my spirit cheers,
And in my dreams the vale of peace appears,
And fleeting visions of my forner life:
My hoary sire I clasp, my long-lost wife,
And oft I kiss my gentle babes in in sleep, [weep.
Till, with the sounding whip, I'm wak'd to
Lift high the seourge, my soul the rack disdains,
I pant for freelom and my native plains!
Chiefs of the earth, and monarchs of the sea,
Who vaunt your hardy ancestors were free;
Whose teachers plead th' oppress'd and injur'd's
And prove the wisdom of your Prophet's laws;
To force and fraud if justice must give place,
You're dragg'd to slavery by some rougher race,
Some rougher race your flocks shall force away,
Like Afric's sons your children must obey
The very Gods that view their constant toil,
Shall see your offspring till a ruder soil,
The pain of thirst and pinching hunger know,
And all the torments that from bondage flow,
When far remov'dfrom Christian worlds weprove
The sweets of peace, the lasting joys of love.
But, hark! the whip's harsh echo thro' the trees!
On every trembling limb fresh horrors seise-
Alas! 'tis morn, and here I sit alone-
Be strong, my soul, and part without a groan!
Ruffians proceed! Adala ne'er shall swerve,
The drooping female's tears, the infant's cries, | Prepare the rack, and strain each aching pervel * The Quakers in America have set free all their Negroes, and allow them wages as other servants
Lift high the scourge, my soul the rack disdains; I pant for freedom and my native plains. Thou God, whogild'stwithlighttheir rising day! Who life dispensest by the genial ray! Will thy slow vengeance never, never fall, But undistinguish'd favor shine on all ? O hear a suppliant wretch's last, sad pray'r! Dart fiercest rage! infect the ambient air! This pallid race, whose hearts are bound in steel, By dint of suffering teach them how to feel.
Or to some despot's lawless will betray'd Give them to know what wretches they have
Beneath the lash let them resign their breath,
Or court, in chains, the clay-cold hand of death,
Or, worst of ills! within each callous breast
Cherish uncurb'd the dark internal pest;
Bid av'rice swell with undiminish'd' rage,
While no new worlds th' accursed thirst assuage;
Then bid the monsters on each other turn,
The füry passions in disorder burn;
Bid Discord flourish, civil crimes increasè,
Nor one fond wish arise that pleads for peace
Till, with their crimes in wild confusion hurl'd,
They wake t'eternal anguish in a future world*.
123. A Description of a Parish Poor House.
CRABBE.
THERE is yon house that holds the parish poor, Whose walls of mud scarce bear the broken door;
There, where the putrid vapors flagging play, And the dull wheel hums doleful thro the day: There children dwell, who knowno care; Parents, who know, no childrens parents del
Heart-broken matrons on their joyless bed, Forsaken wiyes, and mothers never wed; Dejected widows, with unheeded tears, [fears! And crippled age, with more than childhood The lame, the blind, and, far the happiest they! The moping idiot, and the madman gay.
Here too the sick their final doom receive, Here brought, amid the scenes of grief, to grieve: Where the loud groans from some sad chainber flow,
Mix'd with the clamors of the crowd below :
Here, sorrowing, they each kindred sorrow scan,
And the cold charities of inan to man :
Whose laws indeed for ruin'd age provide,
And strong compulsion plucks the scrap from
But still that scrap is bought with many a sigh, And pride embitters what it can't deny.
Say ye, oppress'd by some fantastic woes, Some jarring nerve that baffles your repose; Who pressthe downy couch, while slaves advance With timid eye, to read the distant glance; Who with sad prayers the weary doctor tease To name the nameless ever-new disease;
Whowith mock-patience direcomplaints endure, Which real pain, and that alone, can secure ;
How would ye bear in real pain to lie,
Despis'd, neglected, left alone to die?
How would ye bear to draw your latest breath,
Whereall that's wretched paves the way for death?
Such is that room which one rude beam divides,
And naked rafters form the sloping sides;
Where the vile bands that bindthe thatch areseen,
And lath and mud are all that lie between;
Save onedullpane, that, coarsely patch'd, givesway
To the rude tempest, yet excludes the day:
Here, on a matted flock, with dust o'erspread,
The drooping wretch reclines his languid head;
For him no hand the cordial cup applies,
Nor wipes the tear that stagnates in his eyes;
No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile,
Nor promise hope till sickness wears a smile.
§124. Description of a Country Apothecary.
CRABBE
But soon a loud and hasty summons calls,
Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the
Anon a figure enters, quaintly neat,
[walls:
All pride and bus'ness, bustle and conceit;
With looks unalter'd by these scenes of woe,
With speed that, entering, speaks his haste to go;
He bids the gazing throng around him. fly,
And carries fate and physic in his eye;
A potent quack, long vers'd in human ills,
Who first insults the victim whom he kills;
Whose murd'rous hand a drowsy bench protect,
And whose most tender mercy, is neglect.
Paid by the parish for attendance here,
In haste he seeks the bed where misery lies,
He wears contempt upon his sapient sneer;
Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes;
And,
habitual queries
Without reply, he rushes on the door;
His drooping patient, long inur'd to pain,
And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain;
He ceases now the feeble help to crave
Of man, and inutely hastens to the grave.
§125. Description of a Country Clergyman
visiting the Sick. CRABBE.
But, ere his death, some pious doubts arise,
Some simple fears which "bold bad" men
despise;
Fain would he ask the parish priest to prove
His title certain to the joys above;
For this hesends the murmuring nurse, who calls
The holy stranger to these dismal walls:
And doth not he, the pious man, appear,
He, passing rich with forty pounds a-year?""
Ah no! a shepherd of a different stock,
And far unlike him, feeds this little flock;
A jovial youth, who thinks his Sunday's task
As much as God or man can fairly ask;
The rest he gives to loves, and labors light,
To fields the morning, and to feasts the night;
None better skill'd the noisy pack to guide,
To urge their chace, to cheer them, or to chide;
Sure in his shot, his game he seldom miss'd,
And seldomfail'd to win his game at whist;
* This Eclogue was written during the American war.
Then, while such honors bloom around his head,
Shall he sit sadly by the sick man's bed,
To raise the hope he feels not, or with zeal
To combat fears that ev'n the pious feel?
§ 126. The Reason for describing the Vices of
YET why, you ask, these humble crimes relate,
Why make the poor as guilty as the great?
To show the great, those mightier sons of pride,
How near in vice the lowest are allied :
Such are their natures, and their passions such,
But these disguise too little, those too much :
So shall the man of pow'r and pleasure see
In his own slave as vile a wretch as he;
In his luxuriant lord the servant find
His own low pleasures and degenerate mind:
And each in all the kindred vices trace
Of a poor, blind, bewilder'd, erring race;
Who, a short time in varied fortune past,
Die, and are equal in the dust at last,
And you, ye poor, who still lament your fate,
Forbear to envy those you reckon great;
And know, amid those blessings they possess,
They are, like you, the victims of distress;
While Sloth with many apang torments herslave,
Fear waits on guilt, and Danger shakes the brave.
§. 127. Apology for Vagrants. ANON.
For him, who, lost to ev'ry hope of life,
Has long with fortune held unequal strife,
Known to no human love, no human care,
The friendless, homeless object of despair;
For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains,
Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains.
Alike, if folly or misfortune brought
Those last of woes his evil days have wrought;
Relieve with social mercy, and, with me,
Folly's misfortune in the first degree,
Perhaps on some inhospitable shore
The houseless wretch a widow'd parent bore;
Who, then no more by golden prospects led,
Of the poor Indian begg'd a leafy bed.
Cold, on Carnadian hills, or Minden's plain,
Perhaps that parent mourn'd her soldier slain;
Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolv'd in dew,
The big drops mingling with the milk he drew,
Gave the sad presage of his future years,
The child of misery, baptiz'd in tears!
§ 128. Epistle to a young Gentleman, on his
leaving Eton School. By Dr. ROBERTS.
SINCE now a nobler scene awakes thy care,
Since manhood dawning, to fair Granta's tow'rs,
Where once in life's gay spring I lov'd to roam,
Invites thy willing steps; accept, dear youth,
This parting strain; accept the fervent pray'r
Of him who loves thee with a passion pure
As ever friendship dropp'd in human heart;
The pray'r, That he who guides the hand of youth
Thro' all the puzzled and perplexed round
Of life's meand'ring path, upon thy head
May shower down every blessing, every joy
Which health, which virtue, and which fame
Yet think not I will deign to flatter thee:
Shall he, the guardian of thy faith and truth,
The guide, the pilot of thy tender years,
Teach thy young heart to feel a spurious glow
At undeserved praise? Perish the slave
Whose venal breath in youth's unpractis'd ear
Pours poison'd flattery, and corrupts the soul
With vain conceit; whose base ungenerous art
Fawns on the vice, which some with honest hand
Have torn for ever from the bleeding breast!
Say, gentle youth, remeinber'st thou the day
When o'er thy tender shoulders first I hung
I he golden lyre, and taught thy treambling hand
To touch th' accordant strings? From that blest
I've seen thee panting up the hill of fame; [hour
Thy litle heart beat high with honest praise,
Thy cheek was flush'd, ar.d oft thy sparkling eye
Shot flames of young ambition. Never quench
That generous ardor in thy virtuous breast.
Sweet is the concord of harmonious sounds,
When the soft lute or pealing organ strikes
The well-attemper'd ear; sweet is the breath
Of honest love, when nymph and gentle swain
Waft sighs alternate to each other's heart:
But not the concord of harmonious sounds,
When the soft lute or pealing organ strikes
The well-attemper'd ear; nor the sweet breath
Of honest love, when nymph and gentle swain
Waft sighs alternate to each other's heart,
So charm with ravishment the raptur'd sense,
As does the voice of well-deserv'd report
Strike with sweet melody the conscious soul.
On ev'ry object thro' the giddy world
Which fashion to the dazzled eye presents,
Fresh is the gloss of newness; look, dear youth,
O look, but not admire: O let not these
Rase from thy noble heart the fair records
Which youth and education planted there:
Let not affection's full, impetuons tide,
Which riots in thy generous breast, be check'd
By selfish cares; nor let the idle jeers
Of laughing fools make thee forget thyself.
When didst thou hear a tender tal of woe,
And feel thy heart at rest? Have I not seen
In thy swoln eye the tear of sympathy,
The milk of human kindness? When didst thou,
With envy rankling, hear a rival prais'd?
When didst thou slight the wretched? when des
The modest humble suit of poverty?
[pise
These virtues still be thine; nor ever learn
To look with cold eye on the charities
Of brother, or of parents; think on those
Whoseanxiouscarethro' childhood's slippery path
Sustain'd thy feeble steps; whose every wish
Is wasted still to thee; remember those,
Even in thy heart, while memory holds her seat.
And oft as to thy mind thou shalt recal
The sweet companions of thy earliest years,
Mates of thy sport, and rivals in the strife
Of every generous art, remember me.
THOUGH grief and fondness in my breast rebel
When injur'd Thales bids the town farewel,
Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice com-
mend,
I praise the hermit, but regret the friend;
And plead for pirates in the face of day;
With slavish tenets taint our poison'd youth,
And lend a lie the confidence of truth.
Collect a tax, or farm a lottery;
Let such raise palaces, and manors buy,
With warbling eunuchs fill a licens'd stage,
And lull to servitude a thoughtless age.
Who now resolves, from vice and London far, Heroes, proceed! what bounds your pride shall
To breathe in distant fields a purer air;
And fix'd on Cambria's solitary shore,
Give to St. David one true Briton more.
For who would leave, unbrib'd, Hibernia's
What check restrain your thirst of power and
gold ?
Behold rebellious virtue quite o'erthrown,
Behold our fame, our wealth, our lives your
Or change the rocks of Scotland for the Strand?
There none are swept by sudden fate away,
But all whom hunger spares, with age decay;
Here malice, rapine, accident, conspire,
And now a rabble rages, now a fire;
Their ambush here relentless ruffians lay,
And here the fell attorney prowls for prey;
Here falling houses thunder on your head,
And here a female atheist talks you dead.
While Thales waits the wherry that contains
Of dissipated wealth the small remains,
On Thames's banks in silent thought we
stood,
Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver
flood;
Struck with the seat that gave Eliza * birth,
We kneel and kiss the consecrated earth;
In pleasing dreams the blissful age renew,
And call Britannia's glories back to view;
Behold her cross triumphant on the main,
The guard of commerce, and the dread of
Spain;
Ere masquerades debauch'd, excise oppress'd,
Or English honor grew a standing jest.
A transient calm the happy scenes bestow,
And for a moment lull the sense of woe.
At length awaking, with contemptuous
Indignant Thales eyes the neighbouring town.
Since worth, he cries, in these degenerate days,
Wants e'en the cheap reward of empty praise;
In those curs'd walls, devote to vice and gain,
Since unrewarded science toils in vain;
Since hope but sooths to double my distress,
And ev'ry moment leaves my little less;
While yet my steady steps no staff sustains,
And life, still vig'rous, revels in any veins;
Grant me, kind heaven, to find some happier
Where honesty and sense are no disgrace;
To such a groaning nation's spoils are given,
When public crimes inflame the wrath of hea-
[me,
But what, my friend, what hope remains for
Who start at theft, and blush at perjury?
Who scarce forbear, though Britain's court he
sing,
To pluck a titled poet's borrow'd wing;
A statesman's logic unconvin'd can hear,
And dare to slumber o'er the Gazetteer;
Despise a fool in half his pension dress'd,
And strive in vain to laugh at H-y's jest.
Others, with softer siniles, and subtler art,
Cau sap the principles, or taint the heart;
With more address a lover's note convey,
Or bribe a virgin's innocence away.
Well may they rise, while I, whose rustić
Ne'er knew to puzzle right, or varnish wrong;
Spurn'd as a beggar, dreaded as a spy,
Live unregarded, unlamented die.
For what but social guilt the friend endears?
Who shares Orgelio's crimes, his fortune shares.
But thou, should tempting villany present
All Marlborough hoarded, or all Villiers spent,
Turn from the glitt'ring bribe thy scornful eye,
Nor sell for gold what gold could never buy,
The peaceful slumber, self-approving day,
Unsullied fame, and conscience ever gay.
The cheated nation's happy fav'rites see!
Mark whom the great caress, who frown on
me!
London, the needy villain's gen'ral home
The common-sewer of Paris and of Rome;
With eager thirst, by folly or by fate,
Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted state.
Forgive my transports on a theme like this,
I cannot bear a French inetropolis.
Illustrious Edward, from the realms of day,
The land of heroes and of saints survey;
Nor hope the british lineaments to trace,
The rustic grandeur or the surly grace,
But lost in thoughtless ease and empty show,
Behold the warrior dwindled to a beau;
Sense, freedom, piety, refin'd away,
Of France the mimic, and of Spain the prey.
The sober trader at a tatter'd cloak,
Wakes from his dream, and labors for a joke;
With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze,
And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways.
Of all the griefs that harass the distress'd,
Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest;
Fate never wounds more deep the gen'rons
heart,
All that at home no more can beg or steal,
Or like a gibbet better than a wheel;
Hiss'd from the stage, or hooted from the court,
Their air, their dress, their politics import;
Obsequious, artful, voluble, and gay,
On Britain's fond credulity they prey.
Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart.
Has Heaven reserv'd, in pity to the poor,
No pathless waste or undiscover'd shore?
No secret island in the boundless main?
No peaceful desert yet unclaim'd by Spain?
Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore,
And bear oppression's insolence no more.
No gainful trade their industry can 'scape.
They sing, they dance, clean shoes, or cure a This mournful truth is every where confess'd,
All sciences a fasting Monsieur knows,
And bid him go to hell, to hell he goes.
Ah! what avails it, that from slav'ry far,
I drew the breath of life in English air;
Was early taught a Briton's right to prize,
And lisp the tale of Henry's victories
If the gull'd conqueror receives the chain,
And flattery subdues when arms are vain ?
Studious to please, and ready to submit,
The subtle Gaul was born a parasite:
Still to his int'rest true where'er he goes,
Wit, brav'ry, worth, his lavish tongue bestows;
In ev'ry face a thousand graces shine,
From ev'ry tongue flows harmony divine.
These arts in vain our rugged natives try,
Strain out, with falt'ring diffidence, a lie,
And gain a kick for awkward flattery.
Besides, with justice, this discerning age
Admires their wond'rous talents for the stage:
Well may they venture on the mimic's art,
What play from morn to night a borrow'd part;
Practis'd their master's notions to embrace;
Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face;
With ev'ry wild absurdity comply,
And view its object with another's eye;
To shake with laughter e'er the jest they hear,
To pour at will the counterfeited tear;
And as t
as their patron hints the cold or heat, To shake in dog-days, in December sweat. How, when competitors like these contend, Can surly virtue hope to fix a friend? Slaves that with serious impudence beguile, And lie without a blush, without a smile; Exalt each trifle, ev'ry vice adore, Your taste in snuff, your judgement in a whore, Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and swear
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He gropes his breeches with a monarch's air.
For arts like these preferr'd, admir'd, caress'd,
They first invade your table, then your breast;
Explore your secrets with insidious art,
Watch the weak hour, and ransack all the heart;
Then soon your ill-plac'd confidence repay,
Commence your lords, and govern or betray.
By numbers here from shame and censure free,
All crimes are safe but hated poverty.
This, only this, the rigid law pursues,
This, only this, provokes the snarling Muse.
Slow rises worth, by poverty depress'd:
But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold,
Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are
sold; Where won by bribes, by flatteries implor'd, The groom retails the favors of his lord. But hark! the affrighted crowd's tumultuous [skies: Roll through the streets, and thunder to the Rais'd from some pleasing dream of wealth and
pow'r, Some pompous palace, or some blissful bow'r, Aghast you start, and scarce with aching sight Sustain the approaching fire's treinendous light; Swift from pursuing horrors take your way, And leave your little all to flames a prey; Then through the world a wretched vagrant
For where can starving merit find a home?
In vain your mournful narrative disclose,
While all neglect, and most insult your woes,
Should Heaven's just bolts, Orgilio's wealth
confound,
And spread his flaming palace on the ground,
Swift o'er the land the dismal rumor flies,
And public mournings pacify the skies,
The laureat tribe in servile verse relate,
How virtue wars with persecuting fate;
With well-feign'd gratitude the pension'd band
Refund the plunder of the beggar'd land.
See! while he builds, the gaudy vassals come,
And crowd with sudden wealth the rising dome,
The price of boroughs and of souls restore;
And raise his treasure higher than before;
Now bless'd with all the baubles of the great,
The polish'd marble, and the shining plate,
Orgilio sees the golden pile aspire,
And hopes from Angry Heav'n another fire.
Could'st thou resign the park and play con
For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent;
There might'st thou find some elegant retreat,
Some hireling Senator's deserted seat;
And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land,
For less than rent the dungeons of the strand;
There prune thy walks, support thy drooping
flow'rs,
Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bow'rs;
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