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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, task'd sometimes hard,
Legends prolix delivers in the ears(Attentive when thou read'ft) 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
Mute as e'ér gaz'd on Orator or Bard.
Both heart and head; and could'st with music sweet
Of attic phrase and senatorial tone,
Thy fame diffuse, prais'd not for utt'rance meet
THE MORNING DREAM.
"Twas in the glad season of spring,
Asleep at the dawn of the day,
So pleasant it seem'd as I lay.
Far hence to the westward I faild, 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. She sat, and a shield at her side
Shed light like a sun on the waves, And smiling divinely, she cry'd
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 appear d.
Fled, chas'd by her melody clear,
'Twas Liberty only to hear.
Thus swiftly dividing the flood
To a flave-cultur'd island we came,
Oppression his terrible name.
A scourge hung with lathes he bore, And stood looking out for his prey
From Africa's forrowful fhore.
But soon as approaching the land
That goddess-like woman he view'd, The scourge he let fall from his hand,
With blood of his subjects imbrued. I saw him both ficken and die,
And the moment the monfter expir'd Heard shouts that ascended the sky
From thousands with rapture inspir'd. Awaking, how could I but muse
At what such a dream fhould betide ? But soon my ear caught the glad news
Which servd my weak thought for a guideThat Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves
For the hatred she ever has shown To the black-fceptred rulers of flaves,
Resolves to have none of her own.
PRINTED AT THE BOTTOM OF THE
YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY
OF THE TOWN OF NORTHAMPTON,
Dec. 21, 1787.
Pallida Mors.æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas
While thirteen moons saw smoothly run
The Nen's barge-laden wave,
Have found their home-the grave.
Was man (frail always) made more frail
Than in foregoing years?
That so much death appears?
No; these were vigorous as their fires,
Nor plague nor famine came; This annual tribute Death requires,
And never waves his claim.
Like crowded forest-trees we stand,
And some are mark'd to fall; The axe will smite at God's command,
And soon shall smite us all.
Green as the bay-tree, ever green,
With its new foliage on, The gay, the thoughtless have I seen;
I pass’d—and they were gone.
Read, ye that run, the awful truth
With which I charge my page;
And at the root of age.