THE BLACK SLAVE TRADE.

If Heaven has into being deign'd to call
Thy light, O LIBERTY! to shine on all;
Bright intellectual Sun! why does thy ray
To earth distribute only partial day?
Since no resisting cause from spirit flows
Thy universal presence to oppose;
No obstacles by Nature's hand impress'd,
Thy subtle and ethereal beams arrest;
Not sway'd by matter is thy course benign,
Or more direct or more oblique to shine;
Nor motion's laws can speed thy active course;
Nor strong repulsion's pow'rs obstruct thy force:
Since there is no convexity in MIND,

Why are thy genial rays to parts confin'd?
While the chill North with thy bright beam is blest,
Why should fell darkness half the South invest?
Was it decreed, fair Freedom! at thy birth,
That thou should'st ne'er irradiate all the earth?
While Britain basks in thy full blaze of light,
Why lies sad Afric quench'd in total night?
Thee only, sober Goddess! I attest,
In smiles chastis'd, and decent graces dress'd;
To thee alone, pure daughter of the skies,
The hallow'd incense of the Bard should rise:
Not that mad Liberty*, in whose wild praise
Too oft he trims his prostituted bays;

* Alluding to the riots in London in the year 1800.

Not that unlicens'd monster of the crowd,
Whose roar terrific bursts in peals so loud,
Deaf'ning the ear of Peace; fierce Faction's tool,
Of rash Sedition born, and mad Misrule;

Whose stubborn mouth, rejecting Reason's rein,
No strength can govern, and no skill restrain;
Whose magic cries the frantic vulgar draw
To spurn at Order, and to outrage Law;
To tread on grave Authority and Pow'r,
And shake the work of ages in an hour:
Convuls'd her voice, and pestilent her breath,
She raves of mercy, while she deals out death:
Each blast is fate; she darts from either hand
Red conflagration o'er th' astonish'd land;
Clamouring for peace, she rends the air with noise,
And, to reform a part, the whole destroys.
Reviles oppression only to oppress,

And, in the act of murder, breathes redress.
Such have we seen on Freedom's genuine coast,
Bellowing for blessings which were never lost.
'Tis past, and Reason rules the lucid hour,
And beauteous ORDER reassumes his power:
Lord of the bright ascendant may he reign,
Till perfect Peace eternal sway maintain!

O, plaintive Southerne!* whose impassion'd page
Can melt the soul to grief, or rouse to rage;
Now, when congenial themes engage the Muse,
She burns to emulate thy generous views;
Her failing efforts mock her fond desires,
She shares thy feelings, not partakes thy fires.

* Author of the Tragedy of Oronoko

Strange pow'r of song! the strain that warms the heart Seems the same inspiration to impart;

Touch'd by th' extrinsic energy alone,

We think the flame which melts us is our own;
Deceiv'd, for genius we mistake delight,

Charm'd as we read, we fancy we can write.

Though not to me, sweet Bard, thy pow'rs belong,
The cause I plead shall sanctify my song.
The Muse awakes no artificial fire,

For Truth rejects what Fancy would inspire:
Here Art would weave her gayest flow'rs in vain,
The bright invention Nature would disdain.
For no fictitious ills these numbers flow,
But living anguish, and substantial woe;
No individual griefs my bosom melt,
For millions feel what Oronoko felt:

Fir'd by no single wrongs, the countless host
I mourn, by rapine dragg'd from Afric's coast.
Perish th' illiberal thought which would debase
The native genius of the sable race!

Perish the proud philosophy, which sought
To rob them of the pow'rs of equal thought!
What! does th' immortal principle within
Change with the casual colour of a skin?
Does matter govern spirit? or is MIND
Degraded by the form to which 'tis join'd?

No: they have heads to think, and hearts to feel,
And souls to act, with firm, though erring zeal;
For they have keen affections, soft desires,
Love strong as death, and active patriot fires:
All the rude energy, the fervid flame

Of high-soul'd passion, and ingenuous shame:

Strong, but luxuriant virtues, boldly shoot
From the wild vigour of a savage root.

Nor weak their sense of honour's proud control, For pride is virtue in a Pagan soul;

A sense of worth, a conscience of desert,

A high, unbroken haughtiness of heart;

That self-same stuff which erst proud empires sway'd, Of which the conquerors of the world were made. Capricious fate of men! that very pride

In Afric scourg'd, in Rome was deified.

No Muse, O Qua-shi!* shall thy deeds relate,
No statue snatch thee from oblivious fate!
For thou wast born where never gentle Muse
On Valour's grave the flow'rs of Genius strews;
And thou wast born where no recording page
Plucks the fair deed from Time's devouring rage.

It is a point of honour among Negroes of a high spirit to die rather than to suffer their glossy skin to bear the mark of the whip. Qua-shi had somehow offended his master, a young planter, with whom he had been bred up in the endearing intimacy of a play-fellow. His services had been faithful; his attachment affectionate. The master resolved to punish him, and pursued him for that purpose. In trying to escape, Qua-shi stumbled and fell; the master fell upon him: they wrestled long with doubtful victory; at length Qua-shi got uppermost, and, being firmly seated on his master's breast, he secured his legs with one hand, and with the other drew a sharp knife: then said, “Master, I have been bred up with you from a child; I "have loved you as myself; in return, you have condemned me "to a punishment of which I must ever have borne the marks"thus only I can avoid them;" so saying, he drew the knife with all his strength across his own throat, and fell down dead, without a groan, on his master's body.

RAMSAY'S Essay on the Treatment of African Slaves.

Had Fortune plac'd thee on some happier coast, Where polish'd Pagans souls heroic boast, To thee, who sought'st a voluntary grave, Th' uninjur'd honours of thy name to save, Whose generous arm thy barbarous Master spar'd, Altars had smok'd, and temples had been rear'd. Whene'er to Afric's shores I turn my eyes, Horrors of deepest, deadliest guilt arise; I see, by more than Fancy's mirror shown, The burning village, and the blazing town: See the dire victim torn from social life, See the scar'd infant, hear the shrieking wife! She, wretch forlorn! is dragg'd by hostile hands, To distant tyrants sold, in distant lands: Transmitted miseries, and successive chains, The sole sad heritage her child obtains. E'en this last wretched boon their foes deny, To weep together, or together die. By felon hands, by one relentless stroke, See the fond vital links of Nature broke! The fibres twisting round a parent's heart, Torn from their grasp, and bleeding as they part. Hold, murderers! hold! nor aggravate distress; Respect the passions you yourselves possess: Ev'n you, of ruffian heart, and ruthless hand, Love your own offspring, love your native land; Ev'n you, with fond impatient feelings burn, Though free as air, though certain of return. Then, if to you, who voluntary roam, So dear the memory of your distant home, O think how absence the lov'd scene endears

To him, whose food is groans, whose drink is tears;