Difmifs poor Harry! he replies; Some people are more nice than wife, For one flight trespass all this ftir? What if he did ride whip and spur, 'Twas but a mile-your favourite horse 'Will never look one hair the worse.

Well, I proteft 'tis past all bearing—
Child! I am rather hard of hearing-
Yes, truly-one muft scream and bawl
I tell you, you can't hear at all!
Then, with a voice exceeding low,
No matter if you hear or no.

Alas! and is domeftic ftrife,
That foreft ill of human life,
A plague fo little to be feared,
As to be wantonly incurred,
To gratify a fretful paffion,
On every trivial provocation?
The kindeft and the happiest pair
Will find occafion to forbear;
And fomething every day they live,
To pity, and perhaps forgive.
But if infirmities, that fall
In common to the lot of all,
A blemish or a fenfe impaired,
Are crimes fo little to be fpared,

Then farewell all, that muft create
The comfort of the wedded state;
Inftead of harmony, 'tis jar,

And tumult, and inteftine war.

The love, that cheers life's lateft ftage, Proof againft fickness and old age, Preserved by virtue from declenfion, Becomes not weary of attention; But lives, when that exterior grace, Which first infpired the flame decays. 'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, To faults compaffionate or blind, And will with sympathy endure Those evils, it would gladly cure: But angry, coarse, and harsh expreffion Shows love to be a mere profeffion; Proves that the heart is none of his, Or foon expels him if it is.

THE

NEGRO'S COMPLAINT.

FORCED from home and all its pleasures,
Afric's coaft I left forlorn;

To increase a stranger's treasures,

O'er the raging billows borne.

Men from England bought and fold me,
Paid my price in paltry gold;

But, though theirs they have enrolled me,
Minds are never to be fold.

Still in thought as free as ever,
What are England's rights, I afk,

Me from my delights to fever,
Me to torture, me to task?
Fleecy locks and black complexion

Cannot forfeit nature's claim;

Skins may differ, but affection

Dwells in white and black the fame.

Why did all-creating Nature

Make the plant, for which we toil? Sighs muft fan it, tears muft water, Sweat of ours muft drefs the foil. Think, ye mafters iron-hearted,

Lolling at your jovial boards; Think how many backs have smarted For the fweets, your cane affords.

Is there, as ye fometimes tell us,
Is there one, who reigns on high?
Has he bid you buy and fell us,

Speaking from his throne the sky? Ask him, if your knotted scourges, Matches, blood-extorting fcrews, Are the means, which duty urges Agents of his will to use?

Hark! he answers-wild tornadoes, Strewing yonder fea with wrecks; Wafting towns, plantations, meadows, Are the voice with which he speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations

Afric's fons fhould undergo,

Fixed their tyrants' habitations Where his whirlwinds anfwer-no.

VOL. I.

By our blood in Afric wafted,

Ere our necks received the chain; By the miferies we have tafted, Croffing in your barks the main ; By our fufferings, fince ye brought us To the man-degrading mart; All fuftained by patience, taught us Only by a broken heart.

Deem our nation brutes no longer, Till fome reafon ye shall find Worthier of regard, and ftronger Than the colour of our kind. Slaves of gold, whose fordid dealings Tarnish all your boasted powers,

Prove that you have human feelings, Ere you proudly queftion ours!