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But soon as approaching the land
That goddess-like woman he viewed, The scourge he let fall from his band,
With blood of his subjects imbrued. I saw him both sicken and die,
And the moment the monster expired, Heard shouts, that ascended the sky,
From thousands with rapture inspired.
Awaking how could I but muse
At what such a dream should betide?
For the hatred, she ever has shown, To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves,
Resolves to have done of her own.
In Glory's circling arms the hero bled,
burn'd; To helpless, hopeless, Africa she turn'd; She saw her sister in the Mourner's face, And rush'd with tears into her dark embrace. “All hail !” exclaim'd the Empress of the sea, “ Thy chains are broken, Africa be free !" “All bail!" replied the Mourner, “She
who broke My bonds, shall never wear a stranger's
THE ABOLITION OF SLAVERY.
High on her rock, in solitary state,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; BYRON.
This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, Converse with nature's charms, and see her To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, stores unroll'd. Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
But ’midst the crowd, the bum, the sbock And mortal foot hath ne'er, or rarely been;
of men, To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
And roam along, the world's tired denizen, | I would not be a leaf to die,
bless; Minions of splendour shrinking from dis- The woods and winds, with sudden wail, tress!
Tell all the same unvaried tale ; None that, with kindred consciousness I've none to smile when I am free, endued,
And, when I sigh, to sigh with me. If we were not, would seem to smile the less,
Yet in my dreams a form I view, Of all that Aatter'd, follow'd, sought, and
That thinks on me, and loves me too;
I start, and when the vision's fown, This is to be alone; this, this is solitude ! I weep that I am all alone.
But with a soul that ever felt the sting
Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing:
Not to molest, or irritate, or raise Look where he comes-in this embowered A laugh at his expense, slender praise; alcove
He, that has not usurped the name of man, Stand close concealed, and see a statue move: Does all, and deems too little, all he can, Lips busy, and eyes fixt, foot falling slow, T'assuage ibe throbbings of the festered Arms banging idly down, hands clasped be- part, low,
And stanch the bleedings of a broken heart. Interpret to the marking eye distress, Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose, Sach as its symptoms can alone express. Forgery of fancy, and a dream of woes; That tongue is silent now; that silept tongue Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight, Could argue once, could jest or join the song, Each yielding harmony disposed aright; Could give advice, could censure or com- The screws reversed (a task which if he please mend,
God in a moment executes with ease,) Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. Ten thousand thousand strings at once go Renounced alike its office and its sport,
loose, Its brisker and its graver strains fell short; Lost, till he tune them, all their power and Both fail'd beneath a fever's secret sway,
use. And like a saminer-brook are past away. Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair This is a sight for pity to peruse,
As ever recompensed the peasant's care, Till she resemble faintly what she views, Nor soft declivities with tufted hills, Till sympathy contract a kindred pain, Nor view of waters turning busy mills, Pierced with the woes that she laments in Parks in which art preceptress nature weds, vain.
Nor gardens interspersed with flowery beds, This, of all maladies that man infest, Nor gales, that catch the scent of blooming Claims most compassion, and receives the groves, least :
And waft it to the mourner as he roves, Job felt it, when he groaned beneath the rod Can call up life into his faded eye, And the barbed arrows of a frowning God; That passes all he sees unheeded by : And such emollients as his friends could No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels, spare,
No cure for such, till God who makes them, Friends such as his for modern Jobs prepare. beals. Blest, rather curst, with hearts that never And thou, sad sufferer under nameless ill, feel,
That yields not to the touch of human skill, Kept snug in caskets of close hammered Improve the kind occasion, understand steel,
A Father's frown, and kiss his chastening With moaths made only to grin wide and hand; eat,
To thee the day-spring, and the blaze of noon, And minds, that deem derided pain a treat, The purple evening, and resplendent moon, With limbs of British oak,and nerves of wire, The stars, that sprinkled o'er the vault of And wit, that puppet-prompters might in- night, spire,
Seem drops descending in a shower of light, Their sovereign nostrum is a clumsy joke Shine not, or undesired and hated shine, On pangs enforced with God's severest Seen through the medium of a cloud like stroke.
Yet seek him, in his favour life is found, But fancy paints some spirit nigh,
Who breathes in rapture o'er thy strings ; Then heaven, eclipsed so long, and this dull Some minstrel sylph or fairy power, eartb,
Whose music charms in lonely hour. Shall seem to start into a second birth! Nature, assuming a more lovely face, Æolian harp! the magic swell, Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace, That lingers midst thy sounding wire, Shall be despised and overlooked no more, On whose wild potes I love to dwell, Shall fill thee with delights anfelt before, Could aught but angel voice inspire ? Impart to things inanimate a voice, Could mortal voice so sweetly sing, And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice; | Or raise the soul on fancy's wing? The sound shall run along the winding vales, And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails. Ab! no-No mortal voice e'er sung
A strain so soft, a breath so light;
But what was tuned by airy sprite;
Some seraph wanderer of the sky,
In vesper bour no requiem swell,
On which the pious crowd would dwell, O with thy gracious light, direct my feet To waft the soul to realms of light,
To a more peaceful way,-a nobler love! E'er threw around sach magic power, Guide thou a wanderer to that bless'd retreat, Or breath'd more sweet in lonely hour. The clouds and cares of this dark world above.
That song is o'er; the breeze of night For Thou, my Lord, hast seen year after year Shall sweep in silence o'er the strings ;
Roll on in sadness, since this heart of mine And, ah! that breath, so soft, so light,
Bow'd to that yoke alike on all severe; Shall mourn no more on zephyrs' wings ; Now, weak and faint, I ask thy hand divine Thy trembling chords no more shall sigh, To fix each rebel thought, and vagrant tear, No fairy midstrel hover nigh. Saviour of all! apon that cross of thine !
Farewell, sweet harp; for damp decay
Upon thy mouldering chords shall dwell,
And thou shalt breathe no future lay,
And thou shalt raise no future swell;
The breeze flits by, the music's o'er,
The fairy sounds can charm no more.
Borne on the trembling zephyrs' wings,
That staring eye of soulless ray,
It is a fearful thing to see