Worthier of regard, and stronger Than the colour of our kind. Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings Ere you proudly question ours! PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS. Video meliora proboque Deteriora sequor.— I own I am shocked 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, Especially sugar, so needful we see? What give up our deserts, our coffee, and tea! Besides, if we do, the French, Dutch, and Danes, Will heartily thank us, no doubt, for our pains; If we do not buy the poor creatures, they will, And tortures and groans will be multiplied still. If foreigners likewise would give up the trade, Much more in behalf of your wish might be said; But, while they get riches by purchasing blacks, Pray tell me why we may not also go snacks? Your scruples and arguments bring to my mind A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest, Had once his integrity put to the test; His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob, He was shocked, sir, like you, and answered— "Oh no! What! rob our good neighbour! I I pray you don't go; Besides the man's poor, his orchard's his bread, Then think of his children, for they must be fed.” "You speak very fine, and you look very grave, They spoke, and Tom pondered-" I see they will go: Poor man! what a pity to injure him so! Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I cou'd, But staying behind will do him no good. "If the matter depended alone upon me, His apples might hang till they dropt 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 And went with his comrades the apples to seize; He blamed and protested, but joined in the plan: He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man. THE MORNING DREAM. 'Twas in the glad season of spring, I dreamed what I cannot but sing, I dreamed that on ocean afloat, Far hence to the westward I sailed, While the billows high-lifted the boat, And the fresh-blowing-breeze never failed. In the steerage a woman I saw, Such at least was the form that she wore, Whose beauty impressed me with awe, Shed light, like a sun on the waves, "I go to make Freemen of Slaves." Then raising her voice to a strain The sweetest, that ear ever heard, She sung 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. |