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Fleecy locks and black complexion

Cannot forfeit Nature's claim; 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,

Is there One who reigns on high? Has He bid you buy and sell us,

Speaking from His throne, the sky Ask Him, if your knotted scourges,

Matches, blood-extorting screws, Are the means that duty urges

Agents of His will to use ?

Hark! He answers,

- wild tornadoes, Strewing yonder sea with wrecks, Wasting towns, plantations, meadows,

Are the voice with which He speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations

Afric's sons should undergo, Fixed their tyrants' habitation

Where his WHIRLWINDS answer - No

By our blood in Afric wasted,

Ere our necks received the chain ; By the miseries that we tasted,

Crossing in your barks the main ;
By our sufferings since ye brought us

To the man-degrading mart;
All, sustained by patience, taught us

Only by a broken heart.

Deem our nation brutes no longer,

Till some reason ye shall find
Worthier of regard, and stronger

Than the color of our kind.
Slaves of gold! whose sordid dealings
Tarnish all
your boasted

powers,
Prove that you have human feelings,

Ere you proudly question ours.

W. Coroper.

CLXXXVI.

LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.
TOLL for the brave

! the brave that are no more !
All sunk beneath the wave, fast by their native shore !
Eight hundred of the brave, whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel, and laid her on her side.
A land-breeze shook the shrouds, and she was overset ;
Down went the Royal George, with all her crew complete !

Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone ;
His last sea-fight is fought — his work of glory done.
It was not in the battle ; no tempest gave the shock ;
She sprang no fatal leak; she ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath, his fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down, with twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up, once dreaded by our foes,
And mingle with our cup the tear that England owes !
Her timbers yet are sound, and she may float again,
Full charged with England's thunder, and plow the distant main.
But Kempenfelt is gone, his victories are o’er;
And he and his eight hundred shall plow the waves no more.

W. Corper

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Where rumor of oppression and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or successful war,
Might never reach me more.

My ear is pained,
My soul is sick, with every day's report
Of wrong and outrage, with which earth is filled.
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart;
It does not feel for man : the natural bond
Of brotherhood is severed as the flax
That falls asunder at the touch of fire.
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin
Not colored like his own; and having power
To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause,
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
Lands intersected by a narrow frith
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed
Make enemies of nations, who had else
Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys;
And worse than all, and most to be deplored,
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot,
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat
With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart,
W Veeps 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 slave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews, bought and sold, has ever earned.
No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
Just estimation prized above all price,
I had much rather be myself the slave,
And wear the bonds, thau fasten them on him.
We have no slaves at home — then why abroad?
And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave
That parts us, are emancipate and loosed.
Slaves cannot breathe in England ; if their lungs

Receive our air, that moment they are free ;
They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
That 's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it, then,
And let it circulate through every vein
Of all your empire ; that, where Britain's power
Is felt, mankind may

feel her mercy too. W. Coroper

CLXXXVIII.

THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY.

BLAZE, with your serried columns !

I will not bend the knee !
The shackles ne'er again shall bind

The arm which now is free.
I've mailed it with the thunder,

When the tempest muttered low; And where it falls, ye well may dread

The lightning of its blow !

I've scared ye in the city,

I've scalped ye on the plain ;
Go, count your chosen, where they fell

Beneath my leaden rain !
I scorn your proffered treaty !

The pale-face I defy !
Revenge is stamped upon my spear,

And blood my battle-cry!

Ye’ve trailed me through the forest,

Ye've tracked me o'er the stream ; And struggling through the everglade,

Your bristling bayonets gleam ;
But I stand as should the warrior,

With his rifle and his spear ;
The scalp of vengeance still is red,
And warns ye,

Come not here!

I loathe ye in my bosom,

I scorn ye with my eye,
And l 'll taupt ye

with
my

latest breath,
And fight ye till I die !
I ne'er will ask ye quarter,

And I ne'er will be your slave;
But I'll swim the sea of slaughter,

Till I sink beneath the wave ! G. W. Patton.

OLXXXIX.

THE THREE BEATS.

ROLL

- say?"

roll! How gladly swell the distant notes From where, on high, yon starry pennon floats !

Roll - roll!-On, gorgeously they come, With plumes low-stooping, on their winding way, With lances gleaming in the sun's bright ray : — “ What do ye here, my merry comrades,

“ We beat the gathering drum ; 'T is this which gives to mirth a lighter tone, To the young soldier's cheek a deeper glow, When stretched upon his grassy couch, alone, It steals

upon

his
ear,

this martial call
Prompts him to dreams of gorgeous war, with all

Its pageantry and show !”

Roll — roll ! “ What is it that ye beat ? ”
“ We sound the charge ! - On with the courser fleet!
Where ʼmid the columns, red war's eagles fly,

We swear to do or die !
'Tis this which feeds the fires of Fame with breath,
Which steels the soldier's heart to deeds of death ;

And when his hand,
Fatigued with slaughter, pauses o'er the slain,
Tis this which prompts him madly once again

To seize the bloody brand !”

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