By our blood in Afric wasted,
Ere our necks receiv'd the chain;
By the miseries that we tasted,
Crossing in your barks the main;
By our sufferings, since ye brought us
To the man-degrading mart;
All, sustain'd by patience, taught us
Only by a broken heart—

Deem our nation brutes no longer,
Till some reason ye shall find
Worthier of regard, and stronger
Than the colour of our kind.
Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings
Tarnish all your boasted powers,
Prove that you have human feelings,
Ere you proudly question ours!



FATHER, who made all the beautiful flowers,
And the bright green shades of the summer bowers?
Is it the warm beaming sun that brings

The emerald leaves and the blossomings-
Flowers to the fields and fruits to the tree?

-Not the sun, my dear child, but One greater
than he !

Father, whose hand form'd the blue tinted sky,
Its colour'd clouds and its radiancy?

What are those stars we view, shining in air?
What power ever keeps them suspended there?
Was it man form'd the skies and the glories we see?
-Not man, my dear child, but One greater
than he !

Father, from whence came our own lovely land, With its rivers and seas, and its mountains so grand; Its tall frowning rocks, and its shell-spangled shore? Were not these the work of some people of yore?Owe these not their birth to man's own good decree? -Not to man, my dear child, but One greater than he !

From God came the trees, and the flowers, and the earth

To God do the mountains and seas owe their birth:
His glory alone, love, created on high,

The sun, moon, and stars, and the beautiful sky:
It was He form'd the land, and no people of yore:
-Bend thy knee, my sweet child, that God
now adore!



[Lord Byron, on his first arrival at Newstead, in 1798, planted an Oak in the garden; and nourished the fancy, that as the tree flourished so should he. On revisiting the abbey, he found the Oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed ;-hence these lines.]

YOUNG Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground,

I hop'd that thy days would be longer than mine; That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around,

And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.

Such, such was my hope, when in infancy's years On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride: They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears, Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide.

I left thee, my Oak, and since that fatal hour,
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire;
Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power,
But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire.

Oh! hardy thou wert-even now little care
Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds
gently heal:

But thou wert not fated affection to share

For who could suppose that a stranger would feel? Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while; Ére twice round yon glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy master will teach thee to smile,

When infancy's years of probation are done.

Oh, live then, my Oak ! tow'r aloft from the weeds, That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds,

And still may thy branches their beauty display. Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine,

Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death, On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, Uninjur'd by time, or the rude winter's breath:

For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid; While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave,

The chief who survives may recline in thy shade: And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot, He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread: Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot:

Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay; And here must he sleep, till the moments of time Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.



WE come to being from the night,
As cometh forth the morning light;
The world is beautiful and new,
The earth is fill'd with flowers and dew;
Birds loudly sing on wing and spray,
And we more merrily than they.
We gather strength, we run, we leap,
Find joy in every thing-and sleep.
With mirth and beauty hand in hand,
We take possession of the land:
Life then is surely not a breath—
What then has life to do with death?

A mother's love, her smiles, her tears,
Are with us in those blessed years;
The seeds of fond affection sown
In youth, that strong in age are grown;
Love, that in part her love repays,
Her solace in declining days;

Warmth, light, in age's wintry gloom,
Fair stars, sweet blossoms, to the tomb.

Then knowledge comes with manhood's noon-
With care and sorrow-all too soon.
The springs of mystery are unseal'd,
Whate'er was hidden is reveal'd:

A common vision is the spring;
The rainbow is a common thing;
The morning and the sunset skies
Are gaz'd on with familiar eyes;
The reign of wild delight is o'er,
And the bright earth is heaven no more!

R. Howitt.


THE lark has sung his carol in the sky;
The bees have humm'd their noon-tide lullaby.
Still in the vale the village-bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn Hall the jests resound:
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer;
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire

The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.

A few short years—and then these sounds shall hail

The day again, and gladness fill the vale;
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.

Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sir-loin;
The ale, now brew'd, in floods of amber shine;
And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze,
'Mid many a tale, told of his boyish days,
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguil❜d,
""Twas on these knees he sate so oft and smil'd!"

And soon again shall music swell the breeze; Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scatter'd round; and old and young,

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