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6. The denoument must needs be droll
At length our Porter's slumber o'er,
His features ready for a grin.
To Thew how well he must have lik’d the whim, Though drunk, our Porter hit at last the door,
And HAYMAN found the Hare was sent to him.
A wise old Proverb says, “ To others do,
Sung at the Blind Asylum, Liverpool.
It issu'd from some feeling heart;-
Tell us, oh! tell us who thou art.
We feel indeed, but ne'er complain,
Here gentle toils relieve our woe;
Hark, hark, that piteous sigh again.
May Heav'n, kind stranger, pity thee !
Those tears, alas ! we cannot fee.
And ev'ry boon thy hand has given,
Recorded in the books of Heaven.
THE WILLING SLAVE.
VERSES on an African Woman, whose favorite Boy was
kidnapped by the Crew of a Boat: The Sailors, moved by the Distress of the Mother, would have restored the Child; but the Mate, more judicious, chose to retain him, in hopes that the Distress of the Mother would induce her to become a voluntary Slave rather than part with him.
H, Henry, didst thou hear in vain,
Go, then, and heap the sordid gain,
And sell thy fellow Men for Gold! Yet, when the dingy Mother rov'd
With eager step, and sought her Child, E'en Sailors, stern of heart, were mov'd
With her sad moan and gestures wild. - Give her the Boy, poor fool !" they cry'd:
Why agonize a tender mind?” “ Harpoon'd, harpoon'd!” the Mate reply'd:
“ Slack sail ;– he'll not be long behind.” 'Twas so;-she kiss'd her Children dear,
Beckon'd the boat acrofs the wave Yielded herself (to share the tear
Of her loft Boy)--a willing Slave !
ODE TO TEMPERANCE.
THOU, dear companion of the wise,
By pleasure without sting,
To thee I humbly sing.
A secret, peaceful joy;
They use but not destroy. Gouts, gravels, headachs, all attend On luxury, that woeful fiend,
That bane of human bliss;
Too seldom think of this.
At distant view may charm,
And shun their fatal harm.
Whom dire diseases pine,
All beauteous and divine ?
My guardian and reward,
Be thou my shield and guard.
TO THE MEMORY OF
ET musing Melancholy drop a tear,
fantastic Humour heave a figh; Let no unhallow'd hand approach the bier,
Where low in death his facred reliques lie. Burns, bleft with native vigour, struck the Tyre:
Each heart, affenting, felt the magic found; To soothe the soul the pleasing notes conspire;
From hill and dale the heav'nly notes rebound. Alive to joy, while joy was on the wing;
To playful mirth, to humour void of art; 'Twas Nature's self that taught her bard to sing
The song of joy pour'd genuine from the heart. For Genius gone, let Scotia melt in tears;
Her darling Son no more shall foothe her woes, No more gay hope excite-dispel her fears,
Or tuneful sing her forrows to repose. The foul of harmony, the plaintive strain,
Fall sweetly pleasing on the ravilh'd ear. Nor let unmov'd the hardest heart remain :
In silence drop the softly trickling tear. See where the pledges sweet of mutual love
Are left in pinching penury to pine : 0! if ye hope sweet mercy from above,
Let mercy sweet, to gen'rous deeds incline. A widow's woes, a mother's tears revere,
And helpless babes, their father now no more: The fight of these, alas! belov'd and dear,
His dying breast with bitter anguifh tore. His Jeanie's woes, his helpless babes forlorn,
The prospect dire of penury and want, The insolent contempt, the haughty scorn,
The look disdainful, and the bitter taunt: These, from the unfeeling never cease to fall
With all their weight upon the wretched head; This well he krew:—the thought that heart appall'd
That imild in pain, descending to the dead. O may his stade revisit oft with joy
These scenes which once to rapture rais'd his mind: To glad his shade, your friendly aid employ,
To fuccour those he to your care confign’d. When just about to bid this world adieu
His lait advice ftill rings upon my ear: “ These dying words, I now impart to you,
“O! might the world with due attention hear. “ In fprightly youth of syren vice beware:
“ Learn from my fate the hapless lot of man;
Which once a vital spark from Heav'n inspir'd.
Then left the world to mourn its light retird. While burns that splendid orb which lights the spheres,
While mountain streams descend to swell the main, While changeful seasons mark the rolling years,
Thy fame, O BURNS! let Scotia fill setain.