a“ 
—ae 
he 
3308:] 
There Destruction holds his court, 
And tortures man in hellish sport ! 
If, skilful, thou aspire to heal 
The sinews torn on Slavery’s wheel, 
Say, what avails thy care or skill ? 
Thou canst not remedy the ill: 
—For if a cure might he applied, 
Thou pleadst in vain to have it tried :—= 
What panacea can appease 
The rage of hunger—=dire disease > 
What healing balsam can impart 
Health’s pulses to the broken heart ? 
And hast thou burat the midnight oil 
To waste thy days in fruitless toil ? 
_ And sapp’d thy strength, and spurn’d repose, 
To reap the thorn without the rose? 
Jf Death induftrious point his dart, 
And swift Express the case impart, 
*Tis thine on meagre mule, or horse, 
To stem the rain-fed torrent’s force ; 
Or faint beneath the blaze of noon: 
Or freeze in dewsthat dim the moon! 
When home returning weary, worn, 
With sights of woe thy bosom torn, 
Say, doesa fond and faithful breast 
Sooth thy swelling heart to rest ? 
And pillow soft thy aching head, 
And balm upon thy slumbers shed ? 
Alas! nor Friendship, nor Affiance, 
Nor faithful Love, the soul’s reliance) 
- The cup of Sympathy prepares, 
Or smooths-the pillow of thy cares! 
Slow-moving, mercenary hands, 
Benumb’d by Slavery’s iron bands, 
Reluctant lend their ministry : 
Ah! how unlike Love’s:service free ? 
Nor converse kind, nor soothing quiet, 
Sweetens the hour of resc, or diet; 
But stupid state, and manners rude 
Their coarsest features still intrude. 
Oh! shroud not then, in-savage night, 
The eye that beams with social light! 
If Virtue’s flame thy heart refine, 
** Throbbing with sublime design,”—. 
If Science high, and lib’ral Art, 
And cultur’d Taste their light impart, 
—As the fire-fly’s phosphor ray 
Roos him to the bat a prey— 
he beam of truth that lights thine eye 
Leads blinking, base Brutality, 
With the thick clouds of scowling hate, 
To gloom the eye that sees his ftate ! 
Ev’n he whose life thy hand has say’dy 
By painful vigilance that brav’d 
Danger and Death—ev’n he shall aim 
Detraction’s dagger at thy fame! 
Or in the Hothouse,* or the Hall,+ 
*Tis thine to drain the cup of gall: 
Uf Negroes die, and tongues exclaim, 
The Docter ever bears the blame ; 
Though hard he strove to cure their woe, 
And though Oppression dealt the blow ;: 
Vf care, and skill their numbers raise, 
The Doctor never reaps the praise. 
ee 
* The Negro-hospital. 
} The cating apartment. 
4 
riginal Poetry: 
248 
His fervices remain alone, 
Unthank’d, unnotic’d, and unknown. 
Yet, if he like toeat, and drink, 
Little to read, and less to think, 
To play, with Busua,} at backgammomne 
And bend the knee to aim, and Mammoa, 
And sanctify 11s damned deeds, 
And swear DECREASE from Heav’n proceeds $ 
Such pleasures as Jamaica gives 
May please the Doctor while he lives. 
And if the pestilence should spare 
His lavish’d life,—good fortune rare !=e 
And,—more extrordinary still,— 
Should practice e’er his pockets fill ; 
Bankrupt in years, in hope, in healthy 
Alas! what use has he for wealth? 
He lives, he dies—a sot, aslaveme 
Wnwept, forgotten in the grave! 
Famaica, March, 1808. 
ee 
EPITAPH ON A DOG. 
BY MR. PARRY. 
[Whoever has paid a visit to Mr. Bozley, of 
Esless Lodge, near Wrexham, in Denbigh- 
shire, must have been delighted with the 
sagacity of his favourite dog George 3 whos 
after entertaining his master and his friends 
for fifteen years, died lately ;—and the fol~ 
lowing Epitaph is placed on a ‘fablet to his 
memory :] 
FAERE lies poor George!—my Dog, my 
Friend, 
Who ne’er did any one offend 5 
He pass’d his harmless*days with mey 
Where’er I was, there too was he. 
When bus’ness call’d me far from home, 
He, like a faithful friend, would comey 
To cheer me with his pranks by day 5 
At night, to guard my lonely way. 
No more, alas! with merry dance, 
Will he, with joy, my soul enhance; 
No more lie stretch’d before my fire 5 
No more the harp or flute admire! 
No more his sparkling eyes will tell 
How much he lov’d me—and how well. 
Alas! poor George—this grateful tear 
Will shew my love too—was sincere. 
Farewell, fond friend—for e’er farewell ! 
I to the world thy feats will tell. 
‘Long may Isearch—but search in vainy 
T ne’er shall see thy like again. 
Eslefs Lodge, dug. 20th, 1808. 
a 
THE OWL, AND HIS PUPILS. 
A FABLE. 
“¢ Nunguam aliud natura, aliud sapientia dicit.” 
W HAT! says th’ AEsopian, sour as sorrely 
You sannot sure be soabsurdy 
To rant and prate about a bird, 
And not explain it by amoral ? 
Pray tack at least some precepts stale, 
On virtues cardinal and vices 5 
A fable without moral spices 
Sinks, like a paper-kite without a tail. , 
t Busha, Bisha, or Obusha, the negro pso- 
Aunciation ef Overseers Ue 
Avoiding 
