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THE NEGRO BOY.
An African Prince being asked, what he had given for his watch ? replied, “ what I will never give again.----I give a fine Boy for it.
When avarice enslaves the mind,
And selfish views alone bear sway;
Alas! for this poor simple toy,
His father's hope, his mother's pride;
Tho' black, yet comely to their view;
To fiends that Afric's coast annoy,
From country, friends, and parents torn,
His tender limbs in chains confin'd,
But still to gain this simple toy,
In isles that deck the western wave,
I doom'd the hopeless youth to dwell;
And in their cruel tasks employ,
His wretched parents long shall mourn ;
Shall long explore the distant main,
They never shall the sight enjoy,
Beneath a tyrant's harsh command,
He wears away his youthful prime,
No pleasing thoughts his mind employ,
But he who walks upon the wind,
Whose voice in thunder's heard on high,
In his own time will soon destroy
ON THE BRITISH CHANNEL.
Roll, roll thy white waves, and envelop'd in
foam Pour thy tides round the echoing shore; Thou guard of Old England, my country, my home!
And my soul shall rejoice in the roar !
Though high-fronted valour may scowl at the foe,
And with eyes of defiance advance, 'T'is thou hast repellid desolation and woe,
And the conquering legions of France.
'Tis good to exult in the strength of the land,
That the flow'r of her youth are in arms; That her lightning is pointed, her jav’lin in hand,
And arouz'd the rough spirit that warms :
But never may that day of horror be known,
When these hills and these vallies shall feel The rush of the phalanx by phalanx o'erthrown,
And the hound of the thundering wheel !
The dread chance of battle, it's blood and it's roar,
Who can wish in his senses to prove; To plant the foul fiend on Britannia's own shore
All sacred to peace and to love?
Hail-glory of Albion! ye fleets and ye hosts!
I breathe not the tones of dismay:
But may Heav'n keep the slavgliter away.
Thuu gem of the ocean, that smil'st in thy pow's,
May thy sons prove too strong to be slaves ! Yet let them not scorn in the dark-fated hour
To exult in their rámpart of waves.
The nations have trembledhave cower'd in the
dust, E’en the Alps heard the conqueror's song, When the Genius of Gaul, with unquenchable
thirst, Push'd her eagles resistless along.
And still they advance, and the nations must bleed,
Then sing, O my Country! for joy ;
To protect what the sword would destroy.
Roll, roll thy white waves, and envelop'd in foam
Pour thy tides round the echoing shore;
ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.
Toll for the brave !
The brave! that are no more!
Fast by their native shore !
Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
And laid her on her side.
A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;