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We have no slaves at home — then why abroad ?
And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave
That parts us, are emancipate and loosed.
Slaves cannot breathe in England ; if their lungs
Receive our air, that moment they are free;
They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then,
And let it circulate through every

vein Of all your empire.

That where Britain's power
Is felt, mankind

may
feel her

mercy

too.

RESPECTIVE MERITS OF PATRIOTS AND

MARTYRS-PECULIAR FREEDOM AND PRI-
VILEGES OF THE CHRISTIAN.

CowPER.
Patriots have toiled, and in their country's cause
Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve,
Receive proud recompense. We give in charge
Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic muse,
Proud of the treasure, marches with it down
To latest times; and sculpture, in her turn,
Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass
To guard them, and immortalize her trust;
But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid,
To those, who, posted at the shrine of Truth,
Have fallen in her defence. A patriot's blood,
Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed,
And for a time, ensure to his loved land
The sweets of liberty, and equal laws ;
But MARTYRS struggle for a brighter prize,
And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed
In confirmation of the noblest claim-
Our claim to feed upon immortal truth,
To walk with God, to be divinely free,
To soar, and to anticipate the skies.-
Yet few remember them; they lived unknown,
Till persecution dragged them into fame,
And chased them up to Heaven. Their ashes flew

No marble tells us whither. With their names
No bard embalms and sanctifies his song:
And history, so warm on meaner themes,
Is cold on this. She execrates indeed
The tyranny that doomed them to the fire ;
But gives the glorious sufferers little praise.
He is the freeman whom the truth makes free,
And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain,
That hellish foes confederate for his harm,
Can wind around him, but he casts it off,
With as much ease as Samson his green withes.
He looks abroad into the varied field
Of nature, and though poor perhaps, compared
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,
Calls the delightful scenery all his own.
His are the mountains, and the valleys his,
And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy
With a propriety that none can feel
But who with filial confidence inspired,
Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye,
And smiling say—“My Father made them all.”
Are they not his by a peculiar right,
And by an emphasis of interest his,
Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy,
Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind
With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love,
That planned, and built, and still upholds, a world
So clothed with beauty for rebellious man ?
Yes—ye may fill your garners, ye

that

reap The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good In senseless riot; but, ye will not find In feast, or in the chase, in song or dance, A liberty like his, who unimpeached Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, Appropriates nature as his Father's work, And has a richer use of

yours

than you. He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth Of no mean city ; planned or ere the hills Were built, the fountains opened, or the sea With all his roaring multitude of waves. His freedom is the same in

every state; And no condition of this changeful life,

So manifold in cares, whose every day
Brings its own evil with it, makes it less ;
For he has wings, that neither sickness, pain,
Nor

penury, can cripple, or confine.
No nook so narrow but he spreads them there
With ease, and is at large. The oppressor

holds
His body bound ; but knows not what a range
His spirit takes, unconscious of a charm;
And that to bind him is a vain attempt
Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells.

ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE.

Cowper.*
O THAT those lips had language ! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see,
The same, that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
“Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!”
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it !) here shines on me still the same;
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here !
Who bidst me honour with an artless song,

* We are anxious that the venerated name of the universally-loved author of "The Task” should be properly pronounced—that it should not be confounded with Cooper ! "°C-o-w," as a syllable, in no language, nor under any combination, can be pronounced Coo! That pleasuregiving, delightful domestic animal, the Cow, indeed, in vulgar Scotch, is sounded something like “Coo;" but this is confined to the lowest classes in the Highland agricultural districts. In defence of this barbarism, it has been contended by a public lecturer, we were told, that it must be right, because, forsooth, Cooper and not Cowper is, or was, the pronunciation of the people belonging to the poet's neighbourhood. Why, to show the absurdity of this hypothesis, we might almost with equal propriety contend, because our humble name, in the locality to which we belong, is pronounced Hymers, that that is the genuine pronunciation of Hindmarsh ! - Let us praise as we may Cooper the novelist, but let us not forget nur own delightful poet, William Cowper !

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Affectionate, a mother lost so long :
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own :
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I sned ?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah that maternal smile! it answers, -Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse, that bore thee, slow, away,
And turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !
But was it such ?-It was.- -Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more !
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And disappointed still, was still deceived,
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot,
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; And where the gardener, Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,

Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightest know me safe, and warmly laid ;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit or confectionary plum ;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed ;
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes ;
All this still legible in my memory's page,
And still to be so to may latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may ;
Perhaps a frail memorial but sincere,
Nor scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here.

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, the jessamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin,-
(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile,
Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart—the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.-
But, no—what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou as a gallant bark from Albion's coast, (The storms all weathered, and the ocean crossed,) Shoots into port, at some well-havened isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore, “ Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar,”

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