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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;
Man turns a savage to his kind,
And blood and rapine mark his way:

Alas! for this poor simple toy,
I sold a blooming Negro Boy.

His father's hope, his mother's pride;

Tho' black, yet comely to their view;
I tore him helpless from their side,
And gave him to a ruffian crew:

To fiends that Afric's coast annoy,
I sold the blooming Negro Boy.

From country, friends, and parents torn,

His tender limbs in chains confin'd,
I saw him o'er the billows borne,
And mark'd his agony of mind :

But still to gain this simple toy,
I gave away the Negro Boy.

In isles that deck the western wave,

I doom'd the hopeless youth to dwell;
A poor forlorn insulted slave,
A beast that Christians buy and sell :

And in their cruel tasks employ,
The much enduring Negro Boy.

His wretched parents long shall mourn ;

Shall long explore the distant main,
In hopes to see the youth return;
But all their hopes and sighs are vain :

They never shall the sight enjoy,
Of their lamented Negro Boy.

Beneath a tyrant's harsh command,

He wears away his youthful prime,
Far distant from his native land,
A stranger in a foreign clime:

No pleasing thoughts his mind employ,
A poor dejected Negro Boy.

But he who walks upon the wind,

Whose voice in thunder's heard on high,
Who doth the raging tempest bind,
Or wing the light'ning thro' the sky,

In his own time will soon destroy
Th’ oppressors of the Negro Boy.


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:
Iu valour unquestion'd, suill cover your coasts,

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 ;
Thy girdle of Ocean, by Heaven was decreed

To protect what the sword would destroy.

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

And my soul shall rejoice in the roar!


Toll for the brave !

The brave! that are no more!
AK sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore !

Eight hundred of the brave,

Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,

And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George,

With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought;

His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;

No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock.

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