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THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

FAR

MORNING, or The COMPLAINT.

BY DR. GREGORY.

AR from the favage bandit's fierce alarms, Or diftant din of horrid defpots' arms, Though Pennsylvania boasts her peaceful plain, Yet there in blood her petty tyrants reign.

With waving pines though vocal woods be crown'd,
And ftream-fed vales with living wealth abound,
To golden fields though rip'ning rays defcend,
With blufhing fruit though loaded branches bend;
To those who ne'er muft freedom's bleffings taste,
'Tis barren all, 'tis all a worthless waste.

While hoarfe the cat'ract murmur'd on the gale,
And chilling dews fwept through the murky dale;
Along the hills the difmal tempeft howl'd,
And lightnings flash'd, and deep the thunder roll'd;
Beneath a leaflefs tree, ere morn arose,

The flave Adala thus laments his woes:
"Ye grifly spectres! gather round my feat,
From caves unbleft, that wretches' groans repeat;
Terrific forms! from mifty lakes arise,

And, bloody meteors! threaten through the skies.
Oh! curs'd deftroyers of our hapless race!
Of human kind the terror and disgrace!
Lo! hofts of dufky captives, to my view,
Demand a deep revenge! demand their due!
And frowning chiefs now dart athwart the gloom,
And, o'er the falt fea wave, pronounce your doom:
But Gods are juft, and oft the ftroke forbear,

To plunge the guilty in tenfold defpair.

Lift high the fcourge! my foul the rack difdains:
I pant for freedom and my native plains!

With limbs benumb'd, my poor companions lie;
Opprefs'd by pain and want, the aged figh;
Through reedy huts the driving tempeft pours,
Their feft'ring wounds receive the fickly fhow'rs;
In madd'ning draughts our lords their fenfes fteep,
And doom their flaves to stripes and death in fleep.
Now, while the bitter blaft furrounds my head,
To times long paft my restless foul is led,
Far, far beyond the azure hills, to groves
Of ruddy fruit, where beauty fearless roves→→→→
O blifsful feats! O felf-approving joys!
Nature's plain dictates! ignorance of vice!
O guiltless hours! Our cares and wants were few;
No arts of lux'ry or deceit we knew.

Our labour-fport; to tend our cottage-care;
Or, from the palm, the lufcious juice prepare:
To fit indulging love's delufive dream,
And fnare the filver tenants of the ftream;
Or, (nobler toil!) to aim the deadly blow,
With dextrous art, against the spotted foe.
O days, with youthful daring mark'd! 'twas then
I dragg'd the fhaggy monster from his den,
And boldly, down the rocky mountain's fide,
Hurl'd the grim panther in the foaming tide.
Our healthful sports a daily feast afford,
And ev'ning found us at the focial board.
Can I forget, ah me! the fatal day,

When half the vale of peace was fwept away!
Th' affrighted maids, in vain, the gods implore,
And, weeping, view, from far, the happy fhore;
The frantic dames impatient ruffians feize,

And infants fhriek, and clasp their mothers' knees;
With galling fetters, foon their limbs are bound,
And groans throughout the noifome bark refound.
Why was I bound? why did not Whydah see
Adala gain or death or victory?

No ftorms arife, no waves revengeful roar,
To dafh the monsters on our injur'd fhore.
Long o'er the foaming deep, to worlds unknown,
By envious winds, the bulky veffel's blown,
While, by difcafe and chains, the weak expire,
Or, parch'd, endure the flow-consuming fire.
Who'd in this land of many forrows live,
Where death's the only comfort tyrants give?

Tyrants unblest! Each proud of strict command,
Nor age nor fickness holds the iron hand;
Whole hearts, in adamant involv'd, defpife
The drooping female's tears, the infant's cries;
From whofe ftern brows no grateful look e'er beams,
Whose blufhlefs front nor rape nor murder shames.
Nor all I blame; for Naftal, friend to peace,
Through his wide paftures bids oppreffion ceafe*;
No drivers goad, no galling fetters bind,
Nor ftern compulfion damps th' exalted mind.
There ftrong Arcona's fated to enjoy
Domestic sweets, and rear his progeny:
To till his glebe employs Arcona's care,
To Naftal's God he nightly makes his pray'r;
His mind at ease, of chriflian truths he'll boaft-
He has no wife, no lovely offspring loft.
Gay his favannah blooms, while mine appears
Scorch'd up with heat, or moift with blood and tears.
Cheerful his hearth in chilling winter burns,
While to the ftorm the fad Adala mourns.

Lift high the fcourge! my foul the rack difdains;
I pant for freedom and my native plains!
Shall I his holy prophet's aid implore,
And wait for juftice on another fhore?
Or, rufhing down yon mountain's craggy fleep,
End all my forrows in the fullen deep?

A cliff there hangs in yon grey morning cloud,
The dafhing wave beneath roars harsh and loud—
But doubts and fears involve my anxious mind,
The gulph of death once pass'd, what shore we find.
Dubious if, fent beyond th' expanded main,
This foul fhall feek its native realms again;
Or if in gloomy mifts condemn'd to lie,
Beyond the limits of yon arching fky.
A better profpect oft my fpirit cheers,
And in my dream the vale of peace appears,
And fleeting vifions of my former life:
My hoary fire I clafp, my long-loft wife;
And oft I kifs my gentle babes in fleep,

Till, with the founding whip, I'm wak'd to weep.

Lift high the fcourge! my foul the rack difdains;
I pant for freedom and my native plains!

*The Quakers in America have fet free all their Negroes, and
allow them wages, as other fervants

Chiefs of the earth, and monarchs of the fea,
Who vaunt your hardy ancestors were free;
Whofe teachers plead th' opprefs'd and injur'd's cause,
And prove the wifdom of your prophet's laws;
To force and fraud, if juftice must give place,
You're dragg'd to flav'ry by fome rougher race.
Some rougher race your flocks fhall force away;
Like Afric's fons your children muft obey;
The very Gods, who view our conftant toil,
Shall fee your offspring till a ruder foil,
The pain of thirft and pinching hunger know,
And all the torments which from bondage flow;
When, far remov'd from chriftian worlds, we prove
The fweets of peace, the lafting joys of love.

But, hark! the whip's harsh echo through the trees!
On ev'ry trembling limb fresh horrors feize-
Alas! 'tis morn, and here I fit alone-

Be ftrong, my foul, and part without a groan!
Ruffians, proceed! Adala ne'er fhall fwerve,
Prepare the rack, and strain each aching nerve!

Lift high the fcourge! my foul the rack difdains;
I pant for freedom and my native plains!
Thou God, who gild'ft with light the rifing day!
Who life dispensest by thy genial ray!
Will thy flow vengeance never, never fall,
But undiftinguifh'd favour fhine on all ?
Oh! hear a fuppliant wretch's laft, fad pray'r!
Dart fierceft rage! infect the ambient air!
This pallid race, whofe hearts are bound in fteel,
By dint of fuff'ring teach them how to feel!
Or, to fome defpot's lawless will betray'd,
Give them to know what wretches they have made!
Beneath the lafh let them refign their breath,
Or court, in chains, the clay-cold hand of death;
Or, worst of ills, within each callous breast,
Cherish, uncurb'd, the dark internal pest!
Bid av'rice fwell with undiminifh'd rage,
While no new worlds th' accurfed thirst affuage;
Then bid the monsters on each other turn,
The fury paffions in disorder burn!
Bid difcord flourifh, civil crimes increase,
Nor one fond wifh arife that pleads for
Till, with their crimes in wild confufion hurl'd,
They wake t'eternal anguish in a future world!"

peace

EVENING, or The FUGITIVE.

BY THE SAME.

MOMBAZE.

SA

AY, whither, wand'rer, points thy cheerless way, When length*ning fhades announce the clofe of day ? In yon wild wafte no friendly roof thou❜lt find,

The haunt of ferpents and the favage kind.
And fure remembrance mocks me, or I trace
In thine the femblance of Zamboia's face?
Yet fcarce thyfelf! for in thy alter'd eye
I read the records of hard destiny.

From thy rack'd bofom, fighs, that ceaseless flow,
A man befpeak thee exercis'd in woe.

Say, then, what chance has burft thy rigid chains,
Has led thee frantic o'er thefe diftant plains?
What potent forfows can thy peace infest?
What crimes conceal'd prey on thy anxious breast?

ZAMBOIA.

No crimes this heart infeft, this hand defile,
Or frantic drive me o'er a foreign foil.

A murder'd wife, and wrongs unmatch'd I mourn,
And bury'd joys, that never fhall return!
If then thou'rt tempted by the traitor's meed,
Take this poor life, and profper by the deed!

MOMBAZE.

Not the rich produce of Angola's fhore,
Not all the mifer's heap'd and glitt'ring store,
Not all that pride would grafp, or pomp difplay,
Should tempt this hand the wretched to betray.
No traitors dwell within this bleft domain,
The friends of peace we live, a guileless train.
Grief dims thy eye, or gladly wouldft thou fee
Thy lov'd Mombazé yet furvives in me.

Canft thou forget? I taught thy youth to dare
The fylvan herd, and wage the defp'rate war.
Canft thou forget? One common lot we drew;
With thee enchain'd, a captive's fate I knew.
Diftruft me not; but, unreferv'd, difclofe
The anxious tale that in thy bofom glows.
To part our griefs is oft to mitigate,
And focial forrow blunts the darts of fate.

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