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THE WEST INDIAN SLAVE OWNER.

See the dull Creole, at his pompous board,
Attendant vassals cringing round their lord ;
Satiate with food, his heavy eye-lids close,
Voluptuous minions fan him to repose;
Prone on the noonday couch he lolls in vain,
Delirious slumbers rock his maudlin brain;
He starts in horror from bewildering dreams,
His blood-shot eye with fire and frenzy gleams;
He stalks abroad—through all his wonted rounds,
The negro trembles, and the lash resounds;
And cries of anguish shrilling thro' the air,
To distant fields his dread approach declare.
Mark, as he passes, every head declin'd,
Then slowly rais'd, to curse him from behind.
This is the veriest wretch on nature's face,
Own'd by no country-spurn'd by every race;
The tether'd tyrant of one narrow span;
The bloated vampire of a living man;
His frame, a fungus form, of dunghill birth,
That taints the air, and rots above the earth;
His soul-has he a soul, whose sensual breast
Of selfish passions is a serpent's nest.
Who follows headlong, ignorant and blind,
The vague brute instinct of an idiot mind;
Whose heart, 'midst scenes of suffering senseless

grown,
E’en in his mother's lap was chill'd to stone;
Whose torpid pulse no social feelings move;
A stranger to the tenderness of love,
His motley harem charms his gloating eye,
Where ebon, brown, and olive beauties vie.

His children, sprung alike from sloth and vice,
Are born his slaves, and lov'd at market-price:
Has he a soul?–With his departing breath,
A form shall hail him at the gates of death,
The spectre Conscience-shrieking thro' the gloom,
Man, we shall meet again beyond the tomb!”

J. Montgomery.

MOTION FOR A NEW TRIAL, In the Cause of Nose versus Eyes, (vide Cowper's “Report,”

at page 119.)

Lips moving for a New Trial“In the cause at last Sessions, of Nose versus Eyes, It will clearly appear, my Lords, Eyes suffer’d

wrong; That mistakes from a pressure of business will rise, Must be surely allow'd by my learned friend Tongue. “Eyes now are awaken'd to see their distress, And the loss they'll lament, too, as long as they live, Of the grace and the wisdom they us'd to possess, And all the grave dignity spectacles give. “My learned friend says, 'they are made with a straddle;'

[so; But what does this prove? though the fact may be Does the horse or the ass claim the right to the

saddle, Because it fits close to his back ?—surely no! “Let your Lordships imagine no eyes to the face,

learned friend's instance is here just in

verted) Are spectacles worn, or put on, in this case? Not a nose in all Europe would dare to assert it.

(For my

“ That my clients, the Eyes, may give way to a nap, With the spectacles on, is past all contradiction; But, your Lordships must see, this occurs through mishap

sfiction. That they're wilfully clos'd, is my learned friend's “Will your Lordships but turn to 5th Edward the

Third, — An act which undoubtedly settles the question, And shews that new trials were granted and heard Of less moment than this, and less weighty digestion. “ Before I conclude, I appeal to the Court,And your Lordships will surely my argument grantThat the action commenc'd through an envious

retort; For the Nose, as a nose, cannot spectacles want.” The Chief Baron cried, Hem! and then strok'd

down his face; And when all the Court re-consider'd it o'er, [case, They wish'd well to the plaintiffs, and pitied their But could grant no new trial, the cause to restore. Yet to make up all difference, their Lordships

propos'd,That Eyes in this case no advantage might lack,“That a glass should be fix’d, where the buttons

were clos’d, By a ribbon suspended, blue, yellow, or black : “That this should be deem'd the sole right of the

Eyes, To them, and their farthest descendants for ever, With all the immunities thence to arise, To quiz, or to stare through, look clumsy, or clever.'

Anon.

THE COTTON FACTORY.

An unnatural light, Prepar'd for never-resting Labour's eyes, Breaks from a many-window'd fabric huge; And at the appointed hour a bell is heard, Of harsher import than the curfew-knoll That spake the Norman Conqueror's stern behestA local summons to unceasing toil! Disgorg’d are now the ministers of day; And as they issue from the illumin'd pile, A fresh band meets them at the crowded doorAnd in the court-and where the rumbling stream, That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels, Glares, like a troubled spirit in its bed Among the rocks below. Men, maidens, youths, Mothers, and little children, boys and girls, Enter, and each the wonted task resumes Within this temple—where is offer'd up To Gain, the master-idol of the realm, Perpetual sacrifice.

-Domestic bliss ! (Or call it comfort, by a humbler name) How art thou blighted for the poor man's hearth! Lo! in such neighbourhoods, from morn to eve, The habitations empty! or perchance The Mother left alone—no helping hand To rock the cradle of her peevish babe; No daughters round her, busy at the wheel, Or in despatch of each day's little growth Of household occupation: no nice arts Of needle-work; no bustle at the fire, Where once the dinner was prepar'd with pride; Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind;

Nothing to praise, or teach, or to command !
-The Father, if by chance he still retain
His old employments, goes to field or wood,
No longer led or follow'd by his sons ;
Idlers, perchance, they were—but in his sight;
Breathing fresh air, and treading the green earth,
Till their short holiday of childhood ceas'd,
Ne'er to return! That birthright now is lost!

Wordsworth.

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With what unknown delight the mother smild,

When this frail treasure in her arms she press'd ! Her prayer was heard—she clasp'd a living child,

But how the gift transcends the poor request ! A child was all she ask'd, with

many a vow: Mother-behold the child an angel now ! Now in her Father's house she finds a place;

Or if to earth she take a transient flight, 'Tis to fulfil the

purpose To guide thy footsteps to the world of light; A ministering spirit sent to thee, That where she is, there thou may’st also be.

Miss J. Taylor

of his grace,

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THE SQUIRE'S PEW.
A SLANTING ray of evening light

Shoots through the yellow pane;
It makes the faded crimson bright,

And gilds the fringe again:
The window's Gothic framework falls
In oblique shadows on the walls.

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