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Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel
A husband's love,-a father's consciousness.-
That from the wages of his toil had fed
The distant dear ones, and would talk of them
At midnight-when he trod the silent deck
With him he valued, O God! and of the hour
When they should meet again,-till his full heart,
His manly heart, at last would overflow
E'en like a child's with very tenderness.—
Peace to his honest spirit! Suddenly
It came; and merciful the ball of death
That it came suddenly, and shattered him,
And left no moment's agonizing thought
On those he loved so well.
He ocean deep
Now lies at rest.-Be thou her comforter
Who art the widow's friend! Man does not know
What a cold faintness made her blood run back
When first she heard the tidings of the fight.
Man does not know, or knowing, will not heed,
With what an agony of tenderness
She gazed upon her children, and beheld
His image-who was gone.O God! be thou
Her comforter,who art the widow's friend.
SKETCH OF THE HISTORY OF SLAVERY IN
Shall Britain, where the soul of freedom reigns,
Forge chains for others she herself disdains?
Forbid it heaven! O let the nations know
The liberty she loves, she will bestow;
Not to herself the glorious gift confined,
She spreads the blessing wide as humankind;
And scorning narrow views of time and place,
Bids all be free in earth's extended space.
What page of human annals can record
A deed so bright as human rights restored?
O may that God-like deed, that shining page,
Redeem our fame, and consecrate our åge!
And let this glory mark our favoured shore
To curb false freedom, and the true restore!
And Thou, great source of nature and of grace,
Who, of one blood didst form the human race,
Look down in mercy in the chosen time,
With equal eyes on Afric's suffering clime!
Disperse her shades of intellectual night,
Repeat thy high behest, Let there be light!'
Bring each benighted soul, great God, to thee,
And with thy wide salvation make them free!
There is a state serenely blest,
The vestibule of heavenly rest,
So calm, so bright, so pure, so fair,
Angels themselves might linger there.
'Tis not to soar where Newton soared,
To know all Bacon has explored,
Nor crowns and empires to obtain,
Nor India's gems and gold to gain.
To reach this clime so seldom trod,
Is simply to repose on God;
To cast those soul-consuming cares
On him who all creation bears,
Who rolls yon comet o'er the ball,
And gently guides the sparrow's fall
Him whom the soul can fully trust-
The succour of created dust.
It asks no more, but sweetly still
Meets bliss in all a father's will..
Should friends deceive, betray, depart,
Or wound with scorpion stings the heart,
'Tis but the voice of mercy's rod,
To bring or bind us to our God.
PLAY-PLACE OF OUR EARLY DAYS.
Playing our games, and on the very spot;
As happy as we once, to kneel and draw
The chalky rings, and knuckle down at taw ;
Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise; We love the play-place of our early days;
The scene is touching, and the heart is stone
That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.
The wall on which we tried our growing skill,
The very name we carved, subsisting still,
The bench on which we sat, while deep employed,
Tho' mangled-hacked-and hewed-yet not destroyed
The little ones unbuttoned, glowing hot,
To pitch the ball into the grounded hat,
Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat
The pleasing spectacle at once, excites,
Such recollection of our own delights;
That, viewing it, we seem almost t'obtain
Our innocent sweet simple years again.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my grief, and God has given my share-
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting my repose:
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ;
And as a hare, whom hounds and horn
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return, and die at home at last.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreat from care, that never must be mine!
How blest is he, who crowns, in shades like these,
A youth of labour with an age of ease ;