Think, ye masters, iron-hearted, Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, Hark! he answers-wild tornadoes, Afric's sons should undergo, By our blood in Afric wasted, Crossing in your barks the main; Deem our nation brutes no longer, Till some reason ye shall find Worthier of regard, and stronger Than the colour of our kind. Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted pow'rs, Prove that you have human feelings, Ere you proudly question ours! On the receipt of my Mother's Picture out of Norfolk, the gift of my cousin Ann Bodham. O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. The meek intelligence of those dear eyes, Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: 266 My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss, Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such ?-It was-where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd, And disappointed still, was still deceiv'd. By expectation ev'ry day beguil'd, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot, But though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor; And where the gard'ner, Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd All this, and more endearing still than all, Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though little notic'd here. Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, |