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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
hairs Hoar with the snowy blast; 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 vls on wretchednessHe did not scowl, the GALILÆAN mild,
Who met the LAZAR turn'd from rich man's doors, And call'd him friend, and wept upon his sores !
THE RURAL PAIR.
THERE confluent torrents join their stream, that
flow 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 fides with shaggy moss grown o'er. No Doric frieze adorns the humble roof; 'Tis warmly thatch'd—and 'gainst the tempest 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 feelings 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 forrow entrusted to you.
Let them fall on her bosom of snow, and I swear, The next time I visit thy moss-cover'd seat,
I'll pay thee each drop with a genuine tear. So may'st thou, green willow! for
thus toss Thy branches so lank o'er the slow-winding stream; And thou, ftony grotto! retain all thy moss, While
yet there's a poet to make thee his theme. Nay moremay 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 BRAVEMAN ODE.
OW sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,