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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
Áfric's sons should undergo, Fix'd their tyrants' habitations
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,
Only by a broken heart !
Deem our nation brutes no longer,
Till some reason ye shall find
Than the colour of our kind.
Tarnish all your boasted powers,
Ere you proudly question ours !
THE DOG AND THE WATER LILY.
Swept Ouse's silent tide,
I wandered on his side.
My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree (Two nymphs adorned with every grace
That spaniel found for me),
Now wantoned lost in flays and reeds,
Now starting into sight,
With scarce a slower flight.
It was the time when Ouse displayed
His lilies newly blown ;
And one I wished my own.
With cane extended far I sought
To steer it close to land ; But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escaped my eager hand.
Beau marked my unsuccessful pains
With fixed considerate face,
To comprehend the case.
But with a chirrup clear and strong,
Dispersing all his dream,
The windings of the stream.
My ramble ended, I returned;
Beau, trotting far before,
And plunging, left the shore.
I saw him, with that lily cropped,
Impatient swim to meet My quick approach, and soon he dropped
The treasure at my feet.
Charmed with the sight, the world I cried,
Shall hear of this thy deed : My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior broed:
But chief myself I will enjoin,
Awake at duty's call,
To Him who gives me all,
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. THROCKMORTON'S
Oh, share Maria's grief !
Assassined by a thief.
And though by Nature mute,
Of flageolet or flute.
His bosom of the hue
To sweep away the dew.
No cat had leave to dwell;
Large-built and latticed well,
For Bully's plumage sake,
But smooth with wands from Ouse's side,
The swains their baskets make.
Night veiled the pole : all seemed secure ;
Subsistence to provide,
And badger-coloured hide. He, entering at the study door, Its ample area 'gan explore ;
And something in the wind Conjectured, sniffing round and round, Better than all the books he found,
Food chiefly for the mind.
Just then, by adverse fate impressed,
In sleep he seemed to view
Awoke and found it true.
For, aided both by ear and scent,
Ah, Muse, forbear to speak,
He left poor Bully's beak.
Of such mellifluous tone,