Thus swiftly dividing the flood,

To a slave-cultured island we came, Where a demon, her enemy, stoodOppression his terrible name.

In his hand, as the sign of his sway,
A scourge hung with lashes he bore,
And stood looking out for his prey

From Africa's sorrowful shore.

But soon as approaching the land
That goddess-like woman he viewed,
The scourge he let fall from his hand,
With blood of his subjects imbrued.

I saw him both sicken and die,

And the moment the monster expired, Heard shouts that ascended the sky, From thousands with rapture inspired.

Awaking, how could I but muse

At what such a dream should betide?

But soon my ear caught the glad news,

Which served my weak thought for a guideThat Britannia, renowned o'er the waves

For the hatred, she ever has shown,

To the black-sceptered rulers of slaves,
Resolves to have none of her own,

THE

NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM

A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long
Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,

The keen demands of appetite;

When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,

And knew the glow-worm by his spark;

So, stooping down from hawthorn top,

He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,

Harangued him thus, right eloquent—
Did you admire my lamp, quoth he,
As much as I your minstrelsy,

You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song;
For 'twas the self-same power divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.
The songster heard his short oration,
And warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,

And found a supper somewhere else.

Hence jarring sectaries may

Their real interest to discern;

learn

That brother should not war with brother,

And worry and devour each other;

But sing and shine by sweet consent,

Till life's poor transient night is spent,

Respecting in each other's case

The gifts of nature and of

grace.

Those Christians best deserve the name,

Who studiously make peace their aim;

Peace, both the duty and the prize

Of him that creeps and him that flies.

ON A

GOLDFINCH

STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE.

I.

TIME was when I was free as air,

The thistles downy seed my fare,

"My drink the morning dew;

I perched at will on every spray,

My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My strains for ever new.

II.

But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,

And form genteel, were all in vain,

And of a transient date;

For caught and caged, and starved to death,

In dying sighs my little breath

Soon passed the wiry grate.

III.

Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,

And thanks for this effectual close,

And cure of every ill!

More cruelty could none express;
And I, if you had shewn me less,

Had been your prisoner still.