$60 
Hail ye his friends for freedom truly dear, 
Ye who to mercy lend the willing ear, 
Goon, the righteous path humane to trace, 
And be where’er Oppreilion fhews his face, 
Rememb’ring ftill that o’er th’ Atlantic deep 
Still Afric’s fons expattiated weep; 
That man beneath the planter’s goad, 
Is dgom’d to bleed and bear dire flav’ry’s 
_ lead, 
Stay not your handt2!, midft Jamaica’s fields, 
Emancipation juft her blefflings yields, 
Till equal rights the White and Negro guide, 
And equal laws alike o’er all prefide. 
No more let England, on whofe hallow’d 
ground 
No flave can breathe,’ where never flave is 
found, 
The rights of men fo facred e’er degrade, _ 
Or in their fpecies dare the impious trade, 
Detefted traffic! which, to Britain’s fhame, 
So long has tarnifh‘d her commercial name ; 
_Long has her av’rice Virtue proftrate laid, 
And fordid intereft war with juftice made ; 
Her mercy now proclaims a lai{ting peace, 
Virtue’s refior’d, and Afric’s infults ceafe i— 
Now, fhall Atonement lift her grateful 
head, 
And o’er the peaceful land her influence thed ; 
Example pure, with Chriftian precept join’d, 
Undaunted now, fhatl teach the heathen 
mind. 
The Mufe prophetic views a future time, 
When all the virtues live in Afric’s clime ; 
In Guinea’s groves fo long o’erfpread with 
guile, 
The honeft arts, and commerce ufeful, fmile, 
Amid the tranquil Congo’s happy vales 
The holy Jamp of facred truth prevails ; 
And mild Angola, unto Virtue known, 
Religion, Science, both fhall call her own: 
While Gambia’s ftreams that thro’ the val- 
lies range, 
And Nile and Niger fpeak the joyful change, 
Mofambique’s diftant ifles fhall catch the 
found, 
And Truth and Juftice reign fupreme around. 
Sunderland. Be 
a 
MASTER MOWBRAY. 
' little did his mother dream, 
Proceeding to the fair, 
Her darling; by a cruel team, 
Would meet difafter there ! 
And little did his father dread, 
Whom cares at home detain, 
No more, till number’d with the dead, 
To fee his fon again. 
Up Portfdown*, in his mother’s 
Th’ exulting boy afcends: 
Fairings invite on ev’ry ftand—= 
He meets with troops of friends. 
hand, 
* Portidown is a hill in the neighbour- 
-hood of Portfmouth, where there is an an- 
nual fair. The‘calamity which gave occa- 
fion to thefe verfes, happened the 29th Joye 
1806. 
Original Poetry. 
- 
Broughton, April 2, 1807. 
[May 1, 
Adown the hill, as Pleafure leads, 
He bounds with nimble heel, 
But fwiiter run yon frighted fteeds—= 
Ah! fafter rolls the wheel! - 
All mangled is that lovely form, 
Which fhone with grace before 3 
And, like the ruins of a ftorm, 
That face is fair no more! 
And fault’ring is that tuneful tongue, — 
And dira that clofing eye; 
- And evry nerve is now unftrung, 
And death is in that figh. 
**O! were I in my father’s bed!” 
The fainting fuff’rer cry’d ; 
His weeping mother hung her head—= 
He kils’d her cheek, and dy’d! 
They bore him to his father’s bed, 
The bed to him fo dear ; 
They bore him to his father’s bed——_ 
That bed is now his bier. 
O! long, long will his playmates look 
For Mowgray as they roam; © 
And never will his parents broole 
Their childlefs cheerlefs home. . 
With him, when age fhould comfort crave, 
They hop’d to end their care! - 
Now, nought but hope beyond the grave 
Can imooth their pafiage there ! 
J. Mayne. 
ae 
IMPRO™PTU, 
ON BEING PRESENTED BY A FRIEND 
WITH AN EOLIAN HARP MADE BY 
ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 
PIRIT of harmony, whofe power extends 
Through Nature’s vatt doit Ae 
voice is heard 
In every breeze, in every murmuring riblg os > 
In every found, when evening’s placid imile, 
Lulls the rude difcord of the world to reft ; 
Oh breathe thy influence o’er my foul, and 
teach 
A language to its feelings. Hallowed harp! 
How fhall I dare profane thee with my touch? 
Genius and friendfhip o’er thee {pread a 
charm 
Sweeter than even thy own mellifluent tones. 
Come, lingering Spring, ye gentle breezes come 
And wake thefe magic ftrings, and whilft my 
foul 
Feels their foft cadence foothing every fenfe, 
The ardent with, the filent prayer fhall rife 
That Heaven’s ‘en¢ircling pretence may pre= 
ferve ; 
And whifpering angels foothe her every grief 
Who with an angel’s kindnefs foftens mine. 
M. Ds 
_... MR. FOX’s REPARTEE. 
MBS: Montague told me, and in her own 
houfe, 
She car’d not about me, *¢ Torce fkips of « a 
loufe 3” 
But I’m not offended at what fhe has faid,’ 
For women will talk of what runs in their - 
bead. ig ie 
