Then raising her voice to a strain

The sweetest that ear ever heard,
She sang of the slave's broken chain
Wherever her glory appeared.
Some clouds, which had over us hung,
Fled, chased by her melody clear,
And methought while she liberty sung
'Twas liberty only to hear.

Thus swiftly dividing the flood

To a slave-cultured island we came
Where a demon, her enemy, stood-
Oppression his terrible name.
In his hand, as the sign of his sway,
A scourge hung with lashes he bore,
And stood looking out for his prey
From Africa's sorrowful shore.

But soon as approaching the land

That goddess-like woman he viewed,
The scourge he let fall from his hand,
With blood of his subjects imbrued.
I saw him both sicken and die,

And, the moment the monster expired,
Heard shouts that ascended the sky
From thousands with rapture inspired.

Awaking, how could I but muse

At what such a dream should betide?
But soon my ear caught the glad news,

Which served my weak thought for a guide,-
That Britannia, renowned o'er the waves

For the hatred she ever has shown
To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves,
Resolves to have none of her own.

SWEET MEAT HAS SOUR SAUCE; OR, THE SLAVE-TRADER IN THE DUMPS

A TRADER I am to the African shore,

But since that my trading is like to be o'er,
I'll sing you a song that you ne'er heard before,
Which nobody can deny, deny,

Which nobody can deny.

When I first heard the news it gave me a shock
Much like what they call an electrical knock,
And now I am going to sell off my stock,
Which nobody can deny.

'Tis a curious assortment of dainty regales
To tickle the Negroes with when the ship sails,
Fine chains for the neck, and a cat with nine tails,
Which nobody can deny.

Here's supple-jack plenty and store of rat-tan,
That will wind itself round the sides of a man
As close as a hoop round a bucket or can,
Which nobody can deny.

Here's padlocks and bolts and screws for the thumbs
That squeeze them so lovingly till the blood comes;
They sweeten the temper like comfits or plums,

Which nobody can deny.

When a Negro his head from his victuals withdraws, And clenches his teeth and thrusts out his paws, Here's a notable engine to open his jaws,

Which nobody can deny.

Thus going to market, we kindly prepare

A pretty black cargo of African ware

For what they must meet with when they get there,
Which nobody can deny.

'Twould do your heart good to see 'em below
Lie flat on their backs all the way as we go,
Like sprats on a gridiron, scores in a row,
Which nobody can deny.

But ah! if in vain I have studied an art
So gainful to me, all boasting apart
I think it will break my compassionate heart,
Which nobody can deny.

For oh! how it enters my soul like an awl!
This pity, which some people self-pity call,
Is sure the most heart-piercing pity of all,
Which nobody can deny.

So this is my song, as I told you

before;

Come, buy off my stock, for I must no more
Carry Cæsars and Pompeys to Sugar-cane shore,
Which nobody can deny, deny,

Which nobody can deny.

EPIGRAM

To purify their wine some people bleed
A lamb into the barrel, and succeed;
No nostrum, planters say, is half so good
To make fine sugar as a negro's blood.

Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things,
And hence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs.
"Tis in the blood of innocence alone-
Good cause why planters never try their own.

SONNET

ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.

On his emphatical and interesting delivery of the defence of Warren Hastings, Esq., in the House of Lords

COWPER, whose silver voice, tasked sometimes hard,
Legends prolix delivers in the ears

(Attentive when thou read'st) of England's peers,
Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward.

Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard,
Expending late on all that length of plea

Thy generous powers; but silence honoured thee,
Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard.

Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside

Both heart and head; and couldst with music sweet

Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone,

Like thy renowned forefathers, far and wide
Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet
Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.

THE YEARLY DISTRESS

OR, TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX

Verses addressed to a country Clergyman, complaining of the disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the dues at the Parsonage

COME, ponder well, for 'tis no jest,

To laugh it would be wrong,

The troubles of a worthy priest
The burden of my song.