« VorigeDoorgaan »
PLACE the white man on Afric's coast,
And paint their very demons white:
And weep for those she cannot heal: Hers is warm pity's sacred glow;
From all her stores, she bears a part, And bids the spring of hope reflow,
That languish'd in the fainting heart.
"What though so pale his haggard face, So sunk and sad his looks,' she cries; "And far unlike our nobler race,
With crisped locks and rolling eyes;
"Perhaps in some far distant shore,
There are who in these forms delight; Whose milky features please them more, Then ours of jet thus burnish'd bright: Of such may be his weeping wife,
Such children for their sire may call, And if we spare his ebbing life,
Our kindness may preserve them all."
Thus her compassion Woman shows,
"From some sad land the stranger comes,
Where joys like ours are never found; Let's soothe him in our happy homes,
Where freedom sits, with plenty crown'd.
""Tis good the fainting soul to cheer, To see the famish'd stranger fed; To milk for him the mother-deer,
To smooth for him the furry bed.
Thus in extremes of cold and heat,
In Woman they compassion find;
Man may the sterner virtues know,
And Woman holds affliction dear:
And bid life's fairer views appear.
And care they soothe, and age they cheer.
THE bird let loose in eastern skies 1,
But high she shoots through air and light,
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
So grant me, God, from earthly care,
A WINTER'S MORNING.
THE morning vapour rests upon the heights,
The carrier pigeon flies at an elevated pitch, in order to surmount every obstacle between her and the place to which she is destined.
The crusted window of each scatter'd cot,
The birds now quit their holes and lurking sheds, Most mute and melancholy, where through night, All nestling close to keep each other warm, In downy sleep they had forgot their hardships; But not to chant and carol in the air, Or lightly swing upon some waving bough, And merrily return each others' notes. No; silently they hop from bush to bush, Can find no seeds to stop their craving want, Then bend their flight to the low smoking cot, Chirp on the roof, or at the window peck, To tell their wants to those who lodge within. The poor lank hare flies homeward to his den, But little burthen'd with his nightly meal Of wither'd coleworts from the farmer's garden; A wretched, scanty portion, snatch'd in fear; And fearful creatures, forc'd abroad by hunger, Are now to every enemy a prey.
MRS. JOANNA BAILLIE.
IT wav'd not through an Eastern sky,
It was not fann'd by southern breeze
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep
But fair the exil'd Palm-tree grew
Strange look'd it there! the willow stream'd
There came an eve of festal hours.
But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng,
And slowly, sadly, mov'd his plumes,