What favour then not yet possess'd, In wedded love already blest, To thy whole heart's desire? None here is happy but in part: There dwells some wish in every heart, That wish, on some fair future day, ODE TO APOLLO. ON AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN. Some ["Insurpassably beautiful in conception," says Montgomery, "and in itself an answer to the prayer which it contains." of the allusions have perhaps a quaintness which takes from their ease.] PATRON of all those luckless brains, That, to the wrong side leaning, Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams, Why, stooping from the noon of day, Upborne into the viewless air It floats a vapour now, Impell'd through regions dense and rare, Ordain'd, perhaps, ere summer flies, Illustrious drop! and happy then Phoebus, if such be thy design, Give wit, that what is left may shine PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS. [This piece, and the two following on the same subject, were composed in 1788, with the intention of being printed and dispersed as ballads; they were not, however, published till they appeared in the first collected edition of the Author's poems.] Video meliora proboque I OWN I am shock'd at the purchase of slaves, And fear those who buy them and sell them are knaves; What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and groans, Is almost enough to draw pity from stones. I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, What! give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea! Besides, if we do, the French, Dutch, and Danes, If foreigners likewise would give up the trade, Your scruples and arguments bring to my mind A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest, He was shock'd, sir, like you, and answered "Oh no! "You speak very fine, and you look very grave, But apples we want, and apples we'll have ; If you will go with us, you shall have a share, If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear." They spoke, and Tom ponder'd-" I see they will go : Poor man! what a pity to injure him so! Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I could, "If the matter depended alone upon me, His apples might hang till they dropp'd from the tree; But, since they will take them, I think I'll go too, He will lose none by me, though I get a few.” His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease, THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. FORCED from my home and all its pleasures, Still in thought as free as ever, Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same. Why did all-creating Nature Make the plant for which we toil? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards; Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords. Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, Matches, blood-extorting screws, Hark! He answers Wild tornados, Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, By our blood in Afric wasted, No. Ere our necks received the chain; Deem our nation brutes no longer, THE MORNING DREAM. 'Twas in the glad season of spring, I dream'd that on ocean afloat, Far hence to the westward I sail'd, While the billows high-lifted the boat, And the fresh-blowing breeze never fail❜d. In the steerage a woman I saw, Such at least was the form that she wore, Whose beauty impress'd me with awe, Ne'er taught me by woman before. |