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THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

MORNING, or The COMPLAINT.

BY DR. GREGORY.

a

TAR from the savage bandit's fierce alarms, Though Pennsylvania boasts her peaceful plain, Yet there in blood her petty tyrants reign.

With waving pines though vocal woods be crown'd, And stream-fed vales with living wealth abound,

To golden fields though rip'ning rays descend,
With blushing fruit though loaded branches bend;
To those who ne'er must freedom's blessings taste,
'Tis barren all, 'tis all a worthless waste.

While hoarse the cat'ract murmur'd on the gale,
And chilling dews swept through the murky dale;
Along the hills the dismal tempeft howld,
And lightnings flash’d, and deep the thunder rolld;
Beneath a leafless tree, ere morn arose,
The slave Adala thus laments his woes:
“ Ye grisly spectres ! gather round my seat,
From caves unbleft, that wretches' groans repeat;
Terrific forms! from misty lakes arise,
And, bloody meteors ! threaten through the skies.
Oh! curs’d destroyers of our hapless race !
Of human kind the terror and disgrace!
Lo! hosts of dusky captives, to my view,
Demand a deep-revenge! demand their due !
And frowning chiefs now dart athwart the gloom,
And, o'er the salt sea wave, pronounce your doom :
But Gods are just, and oft the stroke forbear,
To plunge the guilty in tenfold despair.

Lift high the scourge! my soul the rack disdains ;
I pant for freedom and my native plains !

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With limbs benumb’d, my poor companions lie;
Oppress'd by pain and want, the aged figh;
Through reedy huts the driving tempeft pours,
Their fest'ring wounds receive the fickly show'rs;
In madd’ning draughts our lords their senses steep,
And doom their llaves to stripes and death in sleep.
Now, while the bitter blast surrounds my head,
To times long past my restless soul is led,
Far, far beyond the azure hills, to groves
Of ruddy fruit, where beauty fearless roves
O blissful feats! O felf-approving joys!
Nature's plain di&tates ! ignorance of vice!
O guiltless hours! Our cares and wants were few;
No arts of lux’ry or deceit we knew.
Our labour-sport; to tend our cottage-care;
Or, from the palm, the luscious juice prepare :
To sit indulging love's delusive dream,
And snare the silver tenants of the stream;
Or, (nobler toil !) to aim the deadly blow,
With dext'rous art, against the spotted foe.
O days, with youthful daring mark’d! 'twas then
I dragg’d the shaggy monster from his den,
And boldly, down the rocky mountain's fide,
Hurld the grim panther in the foaming tide.
Our healthful sports a daily feast afford,
And ev’ning found us at the social board.

Can I forget, ah me! the fatal day,
When half the vale of peace was swept away!
Th’affrighted maids, in vain, the gods implore,
And, weeping, view, from far, the happy thore;
The frantic dames impatient ruffians seize,
Ard infants shriek, and clasp their mothers' knees;
With galling fetters, foon their limbs are bound,
And groans throughout the noisome bark resound.
Why

was I bound? why did not Whydah see
Adala gain or death or victory?
No storms arise, no waves revengeful roar,
To dash the monsters on our injur'd shore.
Long o'er the foaming deep, to worlds unknown,
By envious winds, the bulky vessel's blown,
While, by disease and chains, the weak expire,
Or, parch’d, endure the flow-consuming fire.
Who'd in this land of many sorrows live,
Where death's the only comfort tyrants give ?

1

Tyrants unbleft! Each proud of frict command,
Nor age nor fickness holds the iron hand;
Whole hearts, in adamant involv'd, despise
The drooping female's tears, the infant's cries;
From whose stern brows no grateful look e'er beams,
Whose blushless front nor rape nor murder shames.

Nor all I blame; for Naftal, friend to peace,
Through his wide pastures bids oppression cease* ;
No drivers goad, no galling fetters bind,
Nor stern compulsion damps th' exalted mind.
There strong Arcona's fated to enjoy
Domestic sweets, and rear his progeny:
To till his glebe employs Arcona's care,
To Naital's God he nightly makes his pray'r;
His mind at ease, of christian truths he'll boal-
He has no wife, no lovely offspring loft.
Gay his savannah blooms, while mine appears
Scorch'd up

with heat, or moist with blood and tears. Cheerful his hearth in chilling winter burns, While to the storm the sad Adala mourns.

Lift high the scourge! my soul the rack disdains;
I

pant for freedom and my native plains !
Shall I his holy prophet's aid implore,
And wait for justice on another shore?
Or, rushing down yon mountain's craggy steep,
End all my forrows in the fullen deep?
A cliff there hangs in yon grey morning cloud,
The dashing wave beneath roars harsh and loud
But doubts and fears involve

my

anxious mind, The gulph of death once pafs’d, what shore we find. Dubious if, fent beyond th' expanded main, This soul shall seek its native realms again; Or if in gloomy mists condemn’d to lie, Beyond the limits of yon arching sky. A betier prospect oft my spirit cheers, And in my dream the vale of peace appears, And fleeting visions of my former life: My hoary lire I clasp, my long-loft wife; And oft í kiss my gentle babes in sleep, Till, with the founding whip, I'm wak’d to weep.

Lift high the scourge! my soul the rack disdains;

I pant for freedom and my native plains ! * The Quakers in America have set free all their Negroes, and

allow them wages, as other servants

Chiefs of the earth, and monarchs of the fea,
Who vaunt your hardy ancestors were free;
Whose teachers plead th’ oppress’d and injur’d's cause,
And prove the wisdom of your prophet's laws;
To force and fraud, if justice must give place,
You're dragg’d to slav'ry by some rougher race.
Some rougher race your flocks shall force away;
Like Afric's sons your children must obey ;
The very Gods, who view our constant toil,
Shall see your offspring ull a ruder soil,
The pain of thirst and pinching hunger know,
And all the torments which from bondage flow;
When, far remov'd from christian worlds, we prove
The sweets of peace, the lasting joys of love.

But, hark! the whip’s harsh echo through the trees !
On ev'ry trembling limb fresh horrors seize
Alas! 'ris morn, and here I fit alone
Be strong, my soul, and part without a groan

! Ruffians, proceed! Adala ne'er shall swerve, Prepare the rack, and strain each aching nerve !

Lift high the scourge! my foul che rack disdains ;

I pant for freedom and my native plains !
Thou God, who gild'st with light the rising day!
Who life dispenseft by thy genial ray!
Will thy slow vengeance never, never fall,
But undístinguish'd favour shine on all ?
Oh! hear a suppliant wretch's laft, sad pray’r!
Dart fiercest rage! infect the ambient air !
This pallid race, whose hearts are bound in Steel,
By dint of suff'ring teach them how to feel!
Or, to some despois lawless will betray'd,
Give them to know what wretches they have made !
Beneath the lash let them resign their breath,
Or court, in chains, the clay-cold hand of death ;
Or, worst of ills, within each callous breast,
Cherish, uncurb’d, the dark internal pest!
Bid av'rice swell with undiminish'd

rage,
While no new worlds th’accursed thirst assuage ;
Then bid the monsters on each other turn,
The fury passions in disorder burn!
Bid discord flourish, civil crimes increase,
Nor one fond wish arise that pleads for peace-
Till, with their crimes in wild confusion hurld,
They wake t'eternal anguish in a future world !"

EVENING, or The FUGITIVE.

BY THE SAME.

MOMBAZE.

SAW
VAY, whither, wand'rer, points thy cheerless way,

When length’ning lhades announce the close of day?
In yon wild waste no friendly roof thou'lt find,
The haunt of serpents and the favage kind.
And sure remembrance mocks me, or I trace
In thine the semblance of Zamboia's face?
Yet scarce thyself! for in thy alter'd eye
I read the records of hard destiny.
From thy rack'd bofom, fighs, that ceaseless flow,
A man bespeak thee exercis'd in woe.
Say, then, what chance has burft thy rigid chains,
Has led thee frantic o'er these diftant plains ?
What potent forfows can thy peace infest ?
What crimes conceal'd prey on thy anxious breast?

ZAMBOIA.

No crimes this heart infeft, this hand defile,
Or frantic drive me o'er a foreign soil.
A murder'd wife, and wrongs unmatch'd I mourn,
And bury'd joys, that never shall return!
If then thou’rt tempted by the traitor's meed,
Take this poor life, and prosper by the deed!

MOMBAZE.

Not the rich produce of Angola's shore,
Not all the miser's heap d and glittring store,
Not all that pride would grasp, or pomp display,
Should tempt this hand the wretched to betray.
No traitors dwell within this blest domain,
The friends of peace we live, a guileless train.
Grief dims thy eye, or gladly wouldst thou see
Thy lov’d Mombazé yet survives in me.
Canst thou forget? I taught thy youth to dare
The fylvan herd, and wage the desp’rate war.
Canst thou forget? One common lot we drew;
With thee enchain’d, a captive's fate I knew.
Distrust me not; but, unreserv’d, disclose
The anxious tale that in thy bosom glows.
To part our griefs is oft to mitigate,
And social forrow blunts the darts of fate.

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