While all alive implore that they may be
With the cold corses thrown into the sea.
The villains try to cheer the wretches up,
For better days their promise makes them hope.
Thus unto misery's flame they add more fuel:
The tender mercies of these men are cruel.
They thus sail on, and reach the destined port,
Where Vice has chose her favourite resort.
Now, Negroes, is the cheering promise true,
That on the sea your catchers made to you?
Instead of this, inhuman what ensues;

To paint it full would foil great Milton's muse.
A sale is made, the Africans are sold:
What! sell mankind for sums of paltry gold?
Yes! for its sake all ties are ruthless riven,
And all relations far asunder driven !

Brothers and sisters for its sake must sever,
To meet again while in this world-never!
The mother from the child is forced to part,
Although the darling dearest to her heart!
And not unlike, before her grief-worn eyes,
By ruffian hands her little fondling dies!
Husband and wife-our nature's strongest ties,
Are torn asunder, spite of tears and cries
Thus used are many of the Negro race,
By those who to be Christians profess.

O, noble Britain! never stain your hands,
By using ought produced on Slave-dress'd lands;
O, never use the dear-bought sweet in food-
The sweet bedyed with human creatures' blood.
When you give o'er to use the Slave-nursed cane,
Then Slavery falls! then ends her bloody reign!

JULIA.

'NEATH her head the

grassy pillow,

Overhung by drooping willow,

Where she saw the foaming billow, Lay lovely Julia;

Mourning for him once her loverNow a false and fickle roverWho had sailed the sea far over, And left his Julia.

"Though he's gone and left me ever,
Yet forget him can I never;
Till from earth my soul shall sever,
Aye mourn will Julia!

"All, my dearest! I forgive theeMine the fault was-to believe thee; 'Tis thy looks of life bereave me,

Soon die shall Julia !"

Now in lonely grave she's lying,
Hollow winds around it sighing,
And the owls are nightly crying,
Wild over Julia!

When the young man home return'd,
Keen remorse his bosom burn'd;
For the fair awhile he mourn'd,

Then died for Julia!

In that lonely grave he's lying, Where the winds are hollow sighing, And the owls are nightly crying,

Wild over Julia!

EPISTLE,

Written when the Author was in his twelfth year, at the request of young Friend of his, who wished an Epistle in Rhyme, to send to Young Lady.

DEAR Lady! I cannot withhold
From this attempt, though it is bold;
My heart is yours, and must remain
Fix'd by Love's adamantine chain.

When first we met, so sweet you smiled,
That since I cannot take my rest;
Away from me my heart you wiled;
With love to you my soul's opprest!

My thoughts upon you ever be,
I feel no other care but thee;

This heart, which aye was free's the wind,
Is now to you alone confined.

No maid, before I met with you,

My youthful fancy ever drew;

But now 'tis caught by your fair face

The very seat of love and grace!