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'Twas in the glad season of spring,
Asleep at the dawn of the day,
So pleasant it seem'd as I lay.
Far hence to the westward I saild, While the billows high-lifted the boat,
And the fresh-blowing breeze never fail'd.
In the steerage a woman I saw,
Such at least was the form that she wore, Whose beauty impress'd me with awe,
Ne'er taught me by woman before. She sat, and a shield at her side
Shed light like a sun on the waves, And smiling divinely, the cry'd
" I go to make Freemen of Slaves.".
Then raising her voice to a strain
The sweetest that ear ever heard,
Wherever her glory appear'd.
Fled, chas’d by her melody clear, And methought while she liberty sung,
'Twas liberty only to hear.
Thus swiftly dividing the flood,
To a lave-cultur'd island we came, Where a demon, her enemy, stood
Oppression his terrible name.
A scourge hung with lashes he bore, And stood looking out for his prey
From Africa's forrowful shore.
But soon as approaching the land
That goddess-like woman he view'd, The scourge he let fall from his hand,
With blood of his subjects imbrued. I saw him both ficken and die,
And the moment the monster expir'd Heard fhouts that ascended the sky
From thousands with rapture inspir’d.
Awaking, how could I but muse
At what such a dream should betide ? But soon my ear caught the glad news
Which serv'd my weak thought for a guide That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves
For the hatred the ever has shown To the black-fceptred rulers of Naves,
Resolves to have none of her own..
V E R S ES
Printed at the Bottom of the
Y EARLY BILL OF MORTALITY
OF THE TOWN OF NORTHAMPTON,
Dec. 21, 1787.
Pallida Mars æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas
WHILE thirteen moons saw smoothly run
The Nen's barge-laden wave,
Have found their home the grave.
YLARLY BILL OF MORTALITY.
Was man (frail always) made more frail
Than in foregoing years ?
That so much death appears ?
No; these were vigorous as their Gres,
Nor plague nor famine came; This annual tribute Death requires,
And never waves his claim.
Like crowded forest trees we stand,
And some are mark'd to fall;
And foon shall smite us all.
Green as the bay-tree, ever green,
the thoughtless, have I feen;
Read, ye that run, the awful truth
With which I charge my page; A worm is in the bud of youth, As
4 at the root of age.
No present health can health insure
For yet an hour to come;
Can always balk the tomb.
And oh! that (humble as my lot,
And scorn'd as is my strain *) These truths, though known, too much forgot,
I may not teach in vain.
So prays your Clerk, with all his heart;
And, ere he quits the pen,
*And answer all Amen!
* John Cox, Parish Clerk of Northampton,