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Has he bid you buy and sell us,
Speaking (from his throne, the sky ?
Matches, blood-extorting screws,
Agents of his will to use?
Strewing yonder sea with wrecks,
Are the voice with which he speaks :
Afric's sons should undergo,
Where the whirlwinds answer-No
Ere our necks receiv'd the chain;
Crossing, in our barks, the main;
To the man-degrading mart;
Only by a broken heart.
Till some reason ye shall find
Than the colour of our kind.
Tarnish all your boasted pow'rs,
Ere ye proudly question ours !
TO AN OLD MAN.
WEET Mercy! how my very heart has bled
Hoar with the snowy blaft; while no one cares To clothe thy shrivelld limbs and palsy'd head!
My father! throw away this tatter'd vest,
That mocks thy shiv'ring! take my garment-use A young
man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard, and numb thy breast.
My Sarah, too, shall tend thee, like a child:
And thou shalt talk, in our fire-fide's recess,
Of purple pride, and scowls on wretchedness
Who met the LAZAR turn'd from rich man's doors,
THE RURAL PAIR.
THERE ccnfluent torrents join their stream, that Hoarsely adown yon steepy mountain's brow, Behold a spot ! embrown'd with lofty trees, Whose foliage quivers to the gentle breeze: Near it a cottage stands, mean and obscure, Its turfy sides with shaggy moss grown
o'er. No Doric frieze adorns the humble roof; 'Tis warmly thatch'd--and 'gainst the tempcft proof. The honest tenant of that lowly shed, Though doom'd to toil from day to day for bread, Is greatly rich :—His soul feels pure content ; His deeds are noble, and his life well spent; Betime he seeks repose, betime awakes, And plods to labour ere the morning breaks : No cares corroding rankle in his breast, He fips the transport of unenvy'd reft, And is in humble virtue truly bless’d. Loving and lov’d-join'd to a tender wife, Cheerful he treads the rugged maze of life; Bends with submission to Heav'n's awful will, And thanks the Pow'r that shelters him from ill. But, lo, the dame! how lovely is her mien ! There virtue speaks, there piety is seen; There rural innocence and artless ease Live to delight, to animate, and please.
Around her steps attend a smiling train
So the fair oak, that overhangs the vale,
ODE TO WISDOM.
Can foothe the sickness of the foul;
But if thou com'ft, with frown austere,
Let these, in fairy colours dress’d,
VERSES, by R. B. SHERIDAN, Esq.
[MR. SHERIDAN, meeting MISS LINLEY, (afterwards MRS. SHERIDAN,)
at the Entrance of a Grotto, in the Vicinity of Bath, took the Liberty of offering her some Advice, with which apprehending she was displeased, he left the following Lines in the Grotto, next Day.]
INCOUTH is this moss-cover'd grotto of stone,
As late I in fecret her confidence fought ;
As blushing she heard the grave lesson I taught.
And tell me, thou willow! with leaves dripping dew, Did Delia seem vex'd when Horatio was gone?
And did she confess her resentment to you?
To whisper a cause for the sorrow I feel;
And ligh’d, when she saw that I did it with zeal.
She frown'd, but no rage in her looks could I fee:
She sigh’d, but perhaps 'twas in pity to me.
I tell thee no rage in her looks could I fee:
She was not, she could not be angry For well did she know that my heart meant to wrong,
It sunk at the thought of but giving her pain:
But trusted its task to a faltering tongue,
Which err'd from the feclings it could not explain. Yet, oh! if indeed I've offended the maid,
If Delia my humble monition refuse;
Fan gently her bosom, and plead my excuse.
Two lingering drops of the night-fallen dew;
As tears of my sorrow entrusted to you.
Let them fall on her bosom of snow, and I swear,
I'll pay thee each drop with a genuine tear. So may'st thou, green
thus toss Thy branches so lank o'er the flow-winding stream ; And thou, ftony grotto! retain all thy moss, While
yet there's a poet to make thee his theme. Nay more—may my Delia still give you her charms,
Each ev’ning, and sometimes the whole ev'ning long; Then, grotto! be proud to support her white arms;
Then, willow! wave all thy green tops to her song,
THE BRAVE-AN ODE.
OW sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,