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 which 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 the 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 our barks, the main;
By our fuff'rings, since you brought us

To the man-degrading mart;
All sustain'd with patience, taught us

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 fordid dealings

Tarnish all your boasted pow'rs,
Prove that you have human feelings,

Ere ye proudly question ours !

TO AN OLD MAN.

COLERIDGE.

WEET Mercy! how my very heart has bled

Hoar with the snowy blaft; while no one cares To clothe thy shrivelld limbs and palsy'd head!

My father! throw away this tatter'd vest,

That mocks thy shiv'ring! take my garment-use A young

man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews That hang from thy white beard, and numb thy breast.

My Sarah, too, shall tend thee, like a child:

And thou shalt talk, in our fire-fide's recess,

Of purple pride, and scowls on wretchedness
He did not scowl, the GALILÆAN mild,

Who met the LAZAR turn'd from rich man's doors,
And call'd him friend, and wept upon his sores !

THE RURAL PAIR.

WHERHOW

THERE ccnfluent torrents join their stream, that Hoarsely adown yon steepy mountain's brow, Behold a spot ! embrown'd with lofty trees, Whose foliage quivers to the gentle breeze: Near it a cottage stands, mean and obscure, Its turfy sides with shaggy moss grown

o'er. No Doric frieze adorns the humble roof; 'Tis warmly thatch'd--and 'gainst the tempcft proof. The honest tenant of that lowly shed, Though doom'd to toil from day to day for bread, Is greatly rich :—His soul feels pure content ; His deeds are noble, and his life well spent; Betime he seeks repose, betime awakes, And plods to labour ere the morning breaks : No cares corroding rankle in his breast, He fips the transport of unenvy'd reft, And is in humble virtue truly bless’d. Loving and lov’d-join'd to a tender wife, Cheerful he treads the rugged maze of life; Bends with submission to Heav'n's awful will, And thanks the Pow'r that shelters him from ill. But, lo, the dame! how lovely is her mien ! There virtue speaks, there piety is seen; There rural innocence and artless ease Live to delight, to animate, and please.

Around her steps attend a smiling train
Of beauteous babes, some favour to obtain :
With all the prudence of maternal love,
She forms their manners, early as they move;
Liftens, with kind indulgence, to each moan,
And feeds their lips while fhe neglects her own;
From their young minds disperses error's gloom,
And tends their infant virtues till they bloom.

So the fair oak, that overhangs the vale,
Guards the young fapling from the blafting gale ;-
With outspread arms, affords a tender shade,
And gives to rising nature-nature's aid.

ODE TO WISDOM.

BARBAULD

O

Can foothe the sickness of the foul;
Can bid the warring passions cease,
And breathe the calm of tender peace;
Wisdom! I bless thy gentle sway,
And ever, ever will obey.

But if thou com'ft, with frown austere,
To nurse the brood of care and fear-
To bid our sweetest pasfions die,
And leave us in their room a figh-
Or if thine aspect itern have pow'r
To wither each poor transient flow'r
That cheers this pilgrimage of woe,
And dry the springs whence hope should flow-
Wisdom! thine empire I disclaim,
Thou empty boast of pompous name!
In gloomy shade of cloister dwell,
But never haunt cheerful cell.
Hail to pleasure's frolic train!
Hail to fancy's golden reign!
Festive mirth, and laughter wild,
Free and sportful as the child !
Hope, with eager sparkling eyes,
And easy faith, and fond surprise !

my

Let these, in fairy colours dress’d,
For ever fhare my

careless breaft:
Then, though wise I may not be,
The wise themselves shall envy me.

VERSES, by R. B. SHERIDAN, Esq.

[MR. SHERIDAN, meeting MISS LINLEY, (afterwards MRS. SHERIDAN,)

at the Entrance of a Grotto, in the Vicinity of Bath, took the Liberty of offering her some Advice, with which apprehending she was displeased, he left the following Lines in the Grotto, next Day.]

;

INCOUTH is this moss-cover'd grotto of stone,
Yet I this rude grotto

with
rapture

will

own,
And, willow! thy damps are refreshing to me.
For this is the grotto where Delia reclin'd,

As late I in fecret her confidence fought ;
And this is the tree kept her safe from the wind,

As blushing she heard the grave lesson I taught.
Then tell me, thou grotto of moss-cover'd stone !

And tell me, thou willow! with leaves dripping dew, Did Delia seem vex'd when Horatio was gone?

And did she confess her resentment to you?
Methinks now each bough, as you're waving it, tries.

To whisper a cause for the sorrow I feel;
To hint how she frown'd, when I dar'd to advise,

And ligh’d, when she saw that I did it with zeal.
True, true, filly leaves ! so she did, I allow;

She frown'd, but no rage in her looks could I fee:
She frown'd, but reflection had clouded her brow:

She sigh’d, but perhaps 'twas in pity to me.
Then wave thy leaves brisker, thou willow of woe !

I tell thee no rage in her looks could I fee:
I cannot, I will not believe it was so;

She was not, she could not be angry For well did she know that my heart meant to wrong,

It sunk at the thought of but giving her pain:

with me.

But trusted its task to a faltering tongue,

Which err'd from the feclings it could not explain. Yet, oh! if indeed I've offended the maid,

If Delia my humble monition refuse;
Sweet willow! the next time she visits thy shade,

Fan gently her bosom, and plead my excuse.
And thou, stony grot! in thy arch may'lt preserve

Two lingering drops of the night-fallen dew;
And just let them fall at her feet, and they'll serve

As tears of my sorrow entrusted to you.
Or, left they unheeded should fall at her feet,

Let them fall on her bosom of snow, and I swear,
The next time I visit thy moss-cover'd seat,

I'll pay thee each drop with a genuine tear. So may'st thou, green

willow! for

ages

thus toss Thy branches so lank o'er the flow-winding stream ; And thou, ftony grotto! retain all thy moss, While

yet there's a poet to make thee his theme. Nay more—may my Delia still give you her charms,

Each ev’ning, and sometimes the whole ev'ning long; Then, grotto! be proud to support her white arms;

Then, willow! wave all thy green tops to her song,

THE BRAVE-AN ODE.

COLLINS.

OW sleep the brave, who sink to rest,

When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter fod,
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By Fairy hands their knell is

rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is fung:
Then Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom fhall awhile repair,
To dwell a wecping hermit there.