Sidor som bilder

With stripes, that Mercy with a bleeding heart
Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast.
Then what is man? And what man seeing this,
And having human feelings, does not blush.
And hang his head, to think himself a man? -
I would not have a Nave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I Neep,
And tremble when wake, for all the wealth
That finews bought and sold have ever earn'd.
No; dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
Just estimation priz'd above all price,
I had much rather be myself the Nave,
And wear the bonds, than faften them on him.
We have no Naves at home—then why abroad?
And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave
That parts us, are emancipate and loos'a.
Slaves cannot breathe in England, if their lungs
Receive the air, that moment they are free,
They touch our country, and their shakles fall.
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then,
And let it circulate through ev'ry vein,
Of all your empire, That where Britain's power
Is felt, mankind may feel her merey too.



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Y the blue taper's trembling light

No more I waste the wakeful night,
Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the sages o'er :
Their books from wisdom widely stray
Or point at best the longest way.
I'll seek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's surely taught below,

How deep yon azure dies the sky ! Where orbs of gold benumber'd lie; While through their ranks, in silver pride, The nether crescent seems to glide The Numbering breeze forgets to breathe, The lake is smooth and clear beneath, Where once again the spangled show Descends to meet our eyes below. The grounds which on the right aspire In dimness from the view retire ; The left presents a place of graves, Whose wall the filent waters laves. That steeple guides thy doubtful fight Among the lived gleams of night.


There pafs, with melancholy state,
By all the solmen heaps of fate ;
And think, as softly sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,
" Tiine was, like thee they life poffeít,
6 And time shall be that thou shalt rest.”

Those graves, with bending ozier bound, That namelese heave the crumblid ground, Quick to the glancing thought fclose, Where toil and poverty repose.

The fiat sinooth stones that bear a name,
The chiffel's slender help to fame,
(Which 'ere our set of friends decay
Their frequent steps may wear away,)
A middle race of mortals owl,
Men half ambitious, all unknown.

The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie.
Whose pillars swell with sculptur'd stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones;
These, all the poor reinains of ftate,
Adorn the rich or praise the great ;
Who, while on earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give

Ha! while I gaze pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the shades!
All Now and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds,
They rise in visionary crowds,

And all with sober accent cry,
“ Think, mortal, what it is to die."

Now, from yon black and fun’ral yew,
That bathes the charnel-house with dew,
Methinks I hear a voice begin-
Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,
(Ye toiling clocks, no time resound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground)
It sends a peal of hollow groạns,
Thus speaking from among the bones.

" When men my scythe and darts supply,
How great a King of fears am I!
They view me like the last of things,
They make, and then they dread, my Itings :
Fools! if you less provok'd your fears,
No more my spectre form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God:
A port of calms, a state of ease,
From the rough rage of swelling seas.

Why then thy flowing fable stoles,
Deep pending cypress, mourning poles,
Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds,
And plumes of black, that, as they tread,
Nod o'er the scutcheons of the dead?


Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the soul, these forms of woe :
As men who long in prison dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell:
Whene'er their suffering years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glittering sun :
Such joy, tho' far transcending sense,
Have pious fouls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body placed,
A few and evil years they waste:
But, when their chains are cast ahde,
See the glad scene unfolding wide;
Clap the glad wing, and tow'r away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.

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