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DEAR Senfibility! fource inexhausted of all that's per

EAR cious in our joys, or costly in our sorrows! thou chainest thy martyr down upon his bed of straw, and it is thou who lifteft him up to Heav'n. Eternal Fountain of our feelings! It is here I trace thee, and this is thy divinity which stirs within me: not, that in some fad and fickening moments,

my foul shrinks back upon herself, and startles at deftruction”-mere pomp of words !--but that I feel some

gene. rous joys and generous cares beyond myself-all comes from thee, great, great Sensorium of the world! which vibrates, if a hair of our head but falls upon the ground, in the remotest desert of thy creation. Touched with thee, Eugenius draws my curtain when I languish; hears my tale of symptoms, and blames the weather for the disorder of his nerves. Thou givest a portion of it sometimes to the roughest peasant who


traverses the bleakest mountains. He finds the lacerated lamb of another's flock. This moment I beheld him leaning with his head against his crook, with piteous inclination looking down upon it.--Oh! had I come one moment sooner! -it bleeds to death his gentle heart bleeds with it.

Peace to thee, generous swain! I see thou walkest off with anguish—but thy joys shall balance it; for happy is thy cottage, and happy is the sharer of it, and happy are the lambs which sport about you.


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LIBERTY AND SLAVERY. Disguisë thyself as thou wilt, till Slavery! Nill thou art a bitter draught; and though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. It is thou, LIBERTY, thrice sweet and

gracious goddess, whom all in public or in private worship, whose tafte is grateful, and ever will be so, till Nature herself shall change-no tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron--with thee to smile upon him as he eats his cruft, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious Hea. ven! grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion; and shower down thy mitres, if it seems good unto thy Divine Providence, upon those heads which are aching for them.

PURSUING these ideas, I sat down close by my table, and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself


the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination.

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellowcreatures born to no inheritance but slavery, but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it nearer me, and that the multitude of sad groups in it did but distract me

I took a single captive, and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture.

I BEHELD his body half wafted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of fickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer I saw him pale and feverish : in thirty years the western breeze had not once fanned his blood-he had seen no sun, no moon in all that time--nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice. His children

-But here my heart began to bleed- and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait.

He was fitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the furtheft corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed : a little calendar of small sticks were laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed therehe had one of these little sticks in his hand, and with a rusty nail he was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As I darkened the litsle light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down-fhook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little fick upon the bundle—He gave a deep figh--I saw the iron enter into his soul. I burit into


tears I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn..





My young master in London is dead, faid Oba


-Here is sad news, Trim, cried Susannah, wiping her eyes as Trim stepped into the kitchen, master Bobby is dead.

I LAMENT for him from my heart and my soul, faid Trim, fetching a sigh-Poor creature ! poor boy! poor gentleman !

He was alive last Whitsuntide, said the coachman.Whitsuntide ! alas ! cried Trim, extending his right arm and falling instantly into the same attitude in which he read the fermon,-- What is Whitsuntide, Jonathan, (for that was the coachman's name) or Shrovetide, or any tide or time past, to this? Are we not here now, continued the corporal, (striking the end of his stick perpendicular upon the floor, so as to give an idea of health and stability) and are we not (dropping his hat upon the ground) gone!-in a moment? -It was infinitely ftriking! Susannah burst into a flood of tears —We are not stocks and stones - Jonathan, Obadiah, the cook-maid--all melted.—The foolish fat scullion herself, who was scouring a filh-kettle upon her knees, was roused with it—The whole kitchen crowded about the corporal.

Are we not here now—and gone !--in a moment ?" There was nothing in the sentence it was one of your


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felf. evident truths we have the advantage of hearing every day; and if Trim had not trusted more to his hat than his; head, he had made nothing at all of it.

" Are we not here now, continued the corporal, and of are we not (dropping his hat plump upon the ground "and pausing, before he pronounced the word) gone! or in a moment?" The descent of the hat was as if a heavy lump of clay had been kneaded into the crown of it.Nothing could have exprefied the sentiment of mortality, of which it was the type and forerunner, like it; his hand seemed to vanish from under it, it feil dead, the corporal's eye fixed upon it, as upon a corpfe--and Susannah burst into a figod of tears.



_All our praises why should lords engrofs ? ;
Rise, lionest Muse! and fing the Man of Ross?
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, :
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in uselefs columns, tost,
Or in proud falls magnificently loft,
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and folace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows ?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose ?
Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rise ?
• The Man of Ross!" each lisping babe replies:


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