Think, ye masters, iron-hearted,
Lolling at your jovial boards;
Think how many backs have smarted
For the sweets your cane affords.

Is there, as ye sometimes tell us,
Is there one, who reigns on high!
Has he bid you buy and sell us,
Speaking from his throne, the sky?
Ask him, if your knotted scourges,
Matches, blood-extorting screws,
Are the means that duty urges
Agents of his will to use?

Hark! he answers-wild tornadoes,
Strewing yonder sea with wrecks;
Wasting towns, plantations, meadows,
Are the voice with which he speaks.
He, foreseeing what vexations

Afric's sons should undergo,
Fix'd their tyrants' habitations
Where his whirlwinds answer-No.

By our blood in Afric wasted,
Ere our necks receiv'd the chain;
By the mis'ries that we tasted,

Crossing in your barks the main;
By our suff'rings since ye brought us
This To the man-degrading mart;
Mll-sustain'd by patience, taught us
Ar Only by a broken heart;

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.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears
away!"

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes,
(Bless'd be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it,) here shines on me still the same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.

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
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap,
'Tis now become a hist'ry little known,
That once we call'd the past'ral house our own
Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair,
That mem'ry keeps of all the kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd
A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly
laid;

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum,

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and
glow'd:

All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks
That humour interpos'd too often makes;
All this still legible in mem'ry's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may :
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

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,