LIBRARY CONGRESS Book &£3 — POEMS AND OTHER WRITINGS THE LATE EDWARD RUSHTON. M TO WHICH IS ADDED, A SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR, THE REV. WILLIAM SHEPHERD. , 5 LONDON: ' : , j si .„ 3 PRINTED FDR EFFINGHAM WILSON, ROYAL EXCHANGE. 1824. i, dJ i\>ilu>;4, Printers, Liverpool. CONTENTS. Life of the Author. page To the Memory of Robert Burns 1 Mary ie More 8 The Maniac . . . . 11 Mary's Death .- 14 The Fire of English Liberty 17 The Swallow 21 Blindness ........ 22 On the Approach of the Gout 24 To France 25 On the Death of Hugh Mulligans 30 Lines addressed to Robert Southey, on reading his " Car-1 ^ men Triumphale" J American Independency 38 On the Death of a much-loved Relative 41 To the Memory of the unfortunate Chatterton 45 The Leviathan « 54 Lucy 55 Woman 60 To a Redbreast, in November, written near one of the \ ^ 9 Docks in Liverpool J • The Exile's Lament 67 The Coromantees e t 72 An Epitaph on John Taylor (of Bolton-le-Moors) who died! 77 of the Yellow Fever, at New York, Sept. 11, 1805 J To the Memory of Bartholomew Tilski, a Native of the\ * ft North of Poland J ' s CONTENTS. page Lines to the Memory of William Crowdroy 81 Lines addressed to Benjamin Gibson, oculist, of Manchester 84 Lines written for the Anniversary of the Liverpool Marine 7 gg Society > To a Bald-headed poetical Friend 92 To the Gout 93 Toussaint to his Troops ■. 94 Jemmy Armstrong 98 Song, in Commemoration of the French Revolution, 1791.. 102 Solicitude 105 The Ardent Lover 107 The Lass of Liverpool 109 Blue-eyed Mary Ill Will Clewline 114 The Farewell 117 The Return 120 The Winter Passage 123 The Neglected Tar 126 Absence 130 Entreaty 132 The Complaint 134 Superstition, a Fragment 137 West Indian Eclogues , 141 Expostulatory Letter to George Washington, on his conti-\ ,,._ nuing to be a Proprietor of Slaves J An Attempt to prove that Climate, Food, and Manners,! are not the Causes of the Dissimilarity of Colour in > 181 the Human Species J An Epistle to the Author, by the Rev. William Shepherd. An Apostrophe to the Memory of the Author, by Mr. T. Noble. LIFE EDWARD RUSHTON. Though the author of the following memoir is de- cidedly of opinion, that the intrinsic merit of the Poems contained in this little volume., fully justifies the favour of the public, which has called for their re-publication, he is at the same time persuaded that they will derive an additional interest from a faithful narrative of the unpromising circumstances in which they were produced. He trusts, also, that the reader will not rise unimproved from the contemplation of the portraiture of a man of native talent and unbend- ing mind, struggling with difficulties and conquering them, — cultivating his intellectual powers in the midst of penury, rendered more hopeless by the loss of sight, — by his prudent industry rising above his dis- tresses, and gradually advancing to a competency in his worldly circumstances, with which he was con- tented. Edward Rushton was born at Liverpool on the J3th of November, 1/56. His father, Thomas Rush- ton, had been originally brought up to the business of a hair dresser 5 in which, having saved a little money, he doubtless, in his own opinion, and in that of his neighbours, rose a degree in the order of society, by becoming a dealer -in spirits. That he was a man of some cultivation of mind is evinced by a Poem enti- tled " Party Dissected, or Plain Truth by a Plain Dealer," which he published in the year 1770. This poem contains some good lines and some nervous passages 5 but, like the works of most uneducated writers, it is extremely irregular, and deficient in exact taste. As the title indicates, its subject is political, — and it is written in a high tone of Toryism, loyally ascribing the discontents of the time to envy, hatred, malice, and uncharitableness ; and ridiculing in a vein of happy satire, the inveterate propensity of English handicraftsmen, to suspend their several em- ployments for the more interesting occupation of settling affairs of state. When his son Edward had attained his sixth year, he procured for him admittance into that department of the Free School of Liverpool, where the education of youth is limited to English reading, writing, and arith- metic. In these branches of knowledge the juvenile pupil made a steady and satisfactory progress. Among EDWARD RUSHTON. XV in a state of hopeless blindness — his bodily energies virtually annihilated—and his mental progress ob- structed—knowledge being to him " at one entrance quite shut out." His father's conduct, in sparing no expense in his attempt to procure, by medical aid, an alleviation of his calamity, evinced that he was then actuated by the kindness of parental feelings. But in giving even a sketch of Mr. Rushton's life, it is the painful duty of his biographer to state, that this kindness did not continue long. Mr. Rushton's mother being dead, his father had married a second wife, a woman of considerable talent, but of a most violent temper. She looked with the eye of a step mother on the children of the first marriage j and though the younger Mr. Rushton was treated by her with some degree of consideration, an interference on his part to prevent the ill treatment of one of his sisters, so strongly excited the indignation of his father, that, helpless as he was, he banished him from his house, and doomed him to subsist as he could, on the miserable allowance of four shillings a week. To point out by enlargement the wretchedness of this situation were to insult the feelings of the reader. It was surely calculated to overwhelm a man of an ordinary mind. But Mr. Rushton was not a man of an ordinary mind. He was endued with a spirit which XVI LIFE OF prompted him to grapple with difficulties, and to en- counter the storms of life without dismay. In his extremity, the kindness of an aunt had accommodated him with an apartment 5 but the scantiness of her means disabled her from rendering him any other assistance. He was, therefore, compelled to provide himself with food by the allowance allotted to him by his father, which was, moreover, diminished by three- pence per week, which he gave to a boy as wages for reading to him an hour or two every evening. The aid of this humble servant, and of the few friends who occasionally supplied his office, enabled Mr. Rushton to beguile the weary length of seven years, during which he was thus condemned to penury and destitu- tion. But to indicate that he thus beguiled the weari- ness of his darksome days, is not doing justice to his merits. He converted the apparent misery of his cir- cumstances to considerable mental profit. The course of reading which he adopted was in the highest degree judicious. He availed himself of this period of leisure to become well acquainted with the works of Addison, Steele, Johnson, and the other celebrated English essayists. His love of his late profession led him to listen with eagerness and intelligence to the reading of voyages and travels 5 and he familiarized himself with history, especially with the history of his country. From his father he inherited a fondness for the Muse, EDWARD RUSHTON. XI other books which at this early period of his life attracted his attention, was Anson's Voyage. The perusal of this interesting volume led him to think of the sea service as the means of his immediate support, and to look to the command of a vessel as the ultimate object of his future hopes. And for this service he seemed to be well qualified, by the indications of a vigorous bodily frame, and by the active energies of his mind. He was accordingly bound apprentice, when between ten and eleven years of age, to Messrs. Watt and Gregson, who were at that time respectable mer- chants in the town of Liverpool. When he had attained the early age of sixteen, a remarkable oppor- tunity occurred for his evincing his superior skill in seamanship, and the cool intrepidity of his spirit. On its approach to the harbour of Liverpool, the ship on board of which he served was overtaken by a violent tempest, and became apparently unmanageable. The captain and the crew gave themselves up as lost, and, wandering about the deck in despair, suffered the vessel to drive before the wind. In the midst of the consequent confusion, the young apprentice seized the helm, and called the men to their duty. In times of difficulty, superiority of intellect almost always meets with obedience. The sailors resumed their efforts, and, under the direction of Rushton, the ship was saved. For this spirited conduct he received the Xll LIFE OF thanks of the captain and the crew ; lie was advanced to the situation of second mate, and, at the expiration of his apprenticeship it was noted, with due applause, as an endorsement on his indentures. At this period, the African trade was the chief source of the wealth of Liverpool ; and so much was the general mind of that town familiarized to the process of that abominable traffic, that people of the greatest respectability, and even of the most amiable character, felt no more remorse at the idea of buying and selling thousands of their fellow men, than the butcher experiences at the idea of slaughtering his cattle. It ought not, then, to be regarded as matter of surprise or of reproach, that our youthful seaman was induced, by the prospect of bettering his fortune, to quit the West Indiaman in which he had learnt the rudiments of his profession, to go, in quality of Mate, on a slaving voyage to the Coast of Guinea. But Rushton was naturally kind hearted. He could not witness the distresses of human beings without feeling strong emotions of compassion ; and the fol- lowing incident had prepared his mind to regard with pity the sufferings of the negro race. In one of his voyages to the West Indies, he had contracted an acquaintance with a black man of the name of Qua- niina, whom he kindly taught to read. On some occasion he was despatched to the shore with a boat's EDWARD RUSHTON. Xlll crew, of which Quamina was one. On its return to the ship, the boat was upset in the surf, and the sailors were soon swept by the billows from the keel, to which, in the first confusion, they had all adhered. In this extremity Rushton swam towards a small water cask, which he saw floating at a distance. Quamina had gained this point of safety before him ; and when the generous negro saw that his friend was too much exhausted to reach the cask, he pushed it towards him — bade him good bye — and sunk, to rise no more. This anecdote Mr. Rushton has often related in the hearing of the author of this memoir ; and never with- out dropping a grateful tear to the memory of Qua- mina. With a mind thus predisposed in favour of the despised sons of Africa, it will easily be believed, that when Rushton witnessed the horrors of their captivity on board a slave vessel, he was moved to compassion, and that he bitterly regretted his having engaged him- self in his present odious* employment. These emo- tions were heightened into indignation, on his wit- nessing some brutal treatment to which the captives under his hourly observation were gratuitously sub- jected by the caprice and cruelty of his superiors. His remonstrances on this occasion were so pointed and so unreserved, that the captain accused him of mutiny, and threatened to put him in irons. XIV LIFE OF Happy had it been for Mr. Rushton if this threat had been put into execution. The restraint of im- prisonment would have saved him from one of the heaviest calamities which can befal a human being, — a calamity which tinged many of his future years with melancholy. When the vessel in which he sailed was on its passage to Dominica, almost the whole of its wretched cargo were seized with the opthalmia. In these circumstances, the other officers, whose peculiar duty it was to attend to them, durst not venture into the hold ; and they were left in a state of neglect and destitution. But Rushton listened to the call of humanity. He went daily amongst them, and adminis- tered to them all the relief in his power. To himself the consequences were dreadful. He was soon attacked by a violent inflammation in his eyes, on the subsiding of which, at the termination of three weeks, it was found that his left eye was totally destroyed ; and that the right was entirely covered with an opacity of the cornea. On his return home, his father took him up to London, in order to obtain the advice of the most skilful surgical practitioners on his deplorable case. Among others he consulted the celebrated Baron Wenzel, oculist to the King : but neither the Baron, nor any of his brethren of the profession, could render him the least service j and Mr. Rushton returned to Liverpool EDWARD RUSHTON. Xlll which he gratified by the perusal of the works of our best poets, the striking passages of which he stored up in a most retentive memory. Dramatic composi- tions, too, engaged his lively attention. In these he took an extensive range. The plays of Shakspeare were " familiar to his lips as household words." But, in consequence, perhaps, of his labouring under the same calamity as Milton, that author was his favourite ; and he was assiduous in making himself master, not only of his immortal poems, but also of his prose works, which it is the fashion of the present day too much to neglect. In the mean time he spent his numerous solitary hours in meditating on what had been read to him, and in speculations in which a phi- losophic mind is fond of indulging. He also occa- sionally amused himself with poetical compositions, which, being handed about in manuscript, and now and then finding their way into a newspaper, gradually brought him into notice, and became the means of his extending his acquaintance with men of cultivated minds; Encouraged by their approbation of his fugi- tive pieces, in the year 1 782, he ventured to appear as an author. To a man of Mr. Rnshton's warm feelings and range of intellect, the politics of the day, and especially the rise and progress of the American revo- lutionary war, could not be a matter of indifference. In politics, he then followed as his guide the great XIV LIFE OF Lord Chatham. With him, he "rejoiced that America had resisted ; " — with him he deprecated the indepen- dence of the colonies, as sure to bring on the speedy ruin of the mother country. These ideas he embodied in a poem entitled, "The Dismembered Empire/' which contains some good poetry, and evinces much patriotic feeling. Events have happily falsified the gloomy predictions of the poet, and of the illustrious statesman from whom his opinions on this subject were derived. Mr. Rushton's growing celebrity, and his tranquil submission to the harshness of his destiny, at length softened the rigour of his father, and convinced him of the propriety of his doing something for his son's more comfortable support. But the plan which he adopted for this purpose evinced little feeling and little judgment. He advanced money to establish him and one of his sisters in a tavern in Liverpool. The occupation of tavern keeping was not congenial to Mr. Rushton's taste; and his calamity precluded him from being of much utility in regulating the economy of his little establishment. About this time, too, the African Slave trade became a subject of public atten- tion and of parliamentary inquiry 3 and Mr. Rushton was too independent in spirit to suppress his senti- ments concerning that nefarious traffic. At that time, to speak irreverently of the king, or even to EDWARD RUSHTON. XV deny the existence of a God, were, in the town of Liverpool, venial offences, when compared with the atrocity of condemning the sale and purchase of human flesh. In defiance, however, of popular clamour, Mr. Rushton was unreserved in stating his opinions on this subject 5 and in the year 1787 he gave Ml publi- city to them, in a series of poems, entitled " West India Eclogues," which he dedicated to the venerable Dr. Porteus, then bishop of Chester, who had lately testified his sentiments on the condition of the poor Africans, in a " Sermon on the Civilization, Improve- ment, and Conversion of the Negro Slaves." These Eclogues may be classed amongst the most finished of Mr. Rushton's compositions. The descriptions which they contain of natural scenery are correct, appro- priate, and striking. In diction they are simple, but elegant ; and in incident and dramatic effect they are highly interesting. When the philanthropic Mr. Clarkson visited Liver- pool, for the purpose of collecting evidence on the subject of the details of the Slave trade, he had fre- quent interviews with Mr. Rushton, from whom he derived much correct information, and useful directions as to the quarters in which he might pursue his inquiries. Mr. Rushton's merits in this respect Mr. Clarkson has acknowledged, in a manner which was very gratifying to his feelings, by giving his name to a tributary stream, in bis fanciful chart of the abolition of the Slave trade. It may easily be believed, that a tavern keeper, who was using his exertions to aid in putting an end to a traffic, upon which the commonality of Liver- pool were industriously taught that their subsistence depended, could not be very popular, and that his tavern was not very much frequented. After trying this experiment for gaining a livelihood much longer than might have been expected, Mr. Rushton at length relinquished it, and purchased a share in a weekly newspaper called " The Liverpool Herald," of which he undertook the editorship. This employ- ment was congenial to his taste. It also opened a field for the display of his talents ; and under his guidance the paper was conducted in a most rer spectable manner. But the prospects of emolument, with which he now gratified his fancy, soon vanished. It became his duty, as a public journalist, to record an act of atrocity, perpetrated in the port of Liver- pool, by a Press Gang, which he did, in the language of just indignation. This excited the resentment of the Lieutenant of the gang, who called in great wrath at the office of the Herald, and with loud threats de- manded an apology. Mr. Rushton was too steady to the cause of truth and justice to make the least con- cession ; and as the short way of Stirling a statement EDWARD RUSHTON. XV11 of facts by a prosecutiou for libel was not then so generally known to our military and naval guardians as it is in these more enlightened days, the Lieutenant retired to vent his spleen in unavailing curses. This event, however, alarmed the fears of Mr. Rushton's partner, anil brought on a discussion as to the prin- ciples on which the paper was hereafter to be con- ducted, which was so unsatisfactory to Mr. Rushton^ that he withdrew from the concern. Mr. Rushton was now once more thrown upon the world ; and the gloom of his prospects was deepened by his anxiety. for others, who were dependent on his exertions for their subsistence. He was a husband and a father, having married whilst he kept the tavern. On revolving many plans for his future maintenance, he fixed upon the business of a bookseller, for which his habits and his pursuits certainly rendered him well qualified. Mr. Rushton's inclination to enter upon this line of business was powerfully seconded by the encou- raging advice which he received from a few friends of an inquisitive turn of mind, who had formed them- selves into a society for literary and philosophical discussion, of which he was a member. One of his contributions to this society, preserved by his family in manuscript, evinces the extent of his reading and the acuteness of his reasoning powers. It is a trea- tise, in which he combats, with considerable ingenuity, the opinion of Buffon, Clarkson, and others, who attribute the varieties which occur in the colour of the human species, to the effects of climate, food, and habits of life. But the most interesting circum- stance relative to this society, is the fact, that at one of its meetings Mr. Rushton originated the idea of making some provision for the wants of the indigent blind, which, being improved by due consideration, and adopted and matured by a number of generous and enlightened individuals, at length produced the Liver- pool Blind Asylum, which may be truly characterized as one of the most useful public institutions of which the kingdom can boast. Mr. Rushton's views at first extended no farther than to the establishment of a benefit club, to be aided by charitable donations, for the support of the indigent blind. In recommendation of this plan, early in the year 1790, at the suggestion of the society, he dictated two impressive letters, which were pretty widely circulated in manuscript amongst individuals, who, it was supposed, would be likely to give it their countenance and assistance. The idea of a benefit club having been communicated by Mr. Rushton to Mr. Christie, an intimate friend of his, who, though labouring under the calamity of blindness, had qualified himself to obtain a handsome livelihood by teaching music, that gentleman suggested the im- EDWARD RUSHTON. XIX portant improvement of imparting to young persons, who were visited by the same misfortune, those in- structions from which he had himself derived so much advantage. This project Mr. Rushton developed in a third letter, dated Sept. 22nd, 1 790, which was ad- dressed to Mr. Alanson, an eminent surgeon of the town of Liverpool, and also put into circulation under the signature of Mr. Christie. Copies of the two first letters having been communicated to the Rev. Henry Dannett, curate of St. John's, that gentleman ex- pressed himself warmly in favour of the design proposed in them, and requested to have a conference on the subject with Mr. Rushton, who accordingly waited on him, and put into his hands Mr. Christie's further sug- gestions. These met Mr. Dannett's full approbation. He undertook the cause with exemplary zeal ; and be it recorded to his immortal honour, that it was mainly in consequence of his exertions that the institution was commenced on a small scale, from which, by judicious management and the liberality of the public, it has risen to its present magnitude and importance.* Mr. Rushton, having opened a bookseller's shop in Paradise street, soon obtained a share of custom, which happily convinced him of the judiciousness of his choice * It is much to be lamented that Mr. Dannett was not satisfied with the credit which was justly due to him for his exertions in the Institution of the blind Asylum, but also claimed the merit of the original idea, which is most certainly due to Mr. Rushton and Mr. Christie. XX LIFE OF of an occupation. Hk business was not, indeed, very extensive, nor was his establishment any thing like a splendid one. But he made profits. His early habits of economy were still exemplified in his domestic arrangements. His views were well seconded by the industry and strict attention of his wife. The training of his children agreeably occupied much of his time. The grim spectre of want no longer crossed his view. He became comparatively easy in his circumstances ; he was cheerful and happy. His little bark, however, was nearly overset by the political storms which were excited through this coun- try by the French Revolution. By his writings Mr. Rushton had, previously to that event, signalized him- self as a friend to liberty, and an enemy to oppression. He could not, then, behold unmoved, the spectacle of five and twenty millions of people bursting their fetters, and vindicating, against domestic intrigue and foreign invasion, their claim to freedom. And what his heart strongly felt, he uttered in conversational discussion with impassioned eloquence. At the period, therefore, when those who impunged the proceedings of administration at the commencement of the war with France were proscribed, as not to be tolerated in society, Mr. Rushton had the perilous honour of being what was called "a marked man." The timid advo- cates of liberal principles soon found that whosoever EDWARD RU8HT0N. were seen in his shop were iC marked men" also. The traffickers in human flesh kept his heresies on the subject of their trade fresh in their remembrance, and eagerly availed themselves of the opportunity of in- stigating against him the cry of spurious loyalty. The consequences of this ban and proscription may easily be anticipated. His business declined as his family encreased ; and his prospects of the future became each day more alarming. The author of this memoir witnessed, with respect- ful admiration, the firm demeanour of Mr. Rushton, whilst in these trying circumstances, he was suffering the pains of political persecution without participating in its glories. It was his lot at this time to be the confidential medium of offering to him a liberal accom- modation from the purse of a generous individual. A similar offer had previously been made to him by another kind and wealthy friend. Both these offers he respectfully declined, being determined, he said, to encounter the diminution of his gains by still more rigorous economy, and to wait the event in patience. Of this determination he never repented. In the worst of times he retained some steady and valuable con- nexions. The irritation of the public feeling was by degrees allayed, and was indeed, at length diverted from the friends of freedom, against the ministers, who supported an unsuccessful war by yearly encreus- D XX11 ing taxation. The turning tide of opiuion brought back many of Mr, Rushton's customers, with the ac- cession of new ones. Some little projects for the im- provement of his circumstances were successful. For the remainder of his life, he acquired from his business the means of living in comfort, though not in opulence ; and the resources of his own mind enabled him to cultivate the intellects of his children, and to give them the advantage of an useful and solid education. In speculative politics Mr. Rushton had imbibed, from the study of the works of his favourite Milton, a leaning to republican principles ; and, when he founS that his country had not, as he had apprehended would be the case, been ruined by the concession of inde- pendence to the United States, he watched with curiosity and interest the operation of a republican form of government on the continent of North Ame- rica. Here, though he found much to applaud, he could not but deem it a sad instance of inconsistency, that a nation which had struggled so long, and had made so many sacrifices, in the assertion of its own freedom, should tolerate the slavery of negroes in its own dominions. But above all, he thought it lament- able that Washington, the great champion of indepen- dence, should hold several hundreds of his fellow men in bondage. On this subject, in the year 1797, he addressed to the General a letter of remonstrance. EDWARD RUSHTON. XX111 This letter is ably written, and its principles are irre- fragable. It is, however, more strong than courteous — more convincing than conciliatory : and the Ex- President of the American republic testified his dis- pleasure at its contents, by returning it to the writer in a blank cover. As this circumstance became a sub- ject of conversation and animadversion, Mr. Rushton published the letter, in order to enable those who might be interested in the matter to judge between the Ge- neral and himself. From time to time, after his settlement in Liver- pool, Mr. Rushton had composed a variety of fugitive pieces of poetry, some of which had been printed in newspapers and periodical publications, whilst others slept in his portfolio, or were communicated to his friends in manuscript. From these he was frequently advised by some individuals whose personal attachment to him was the only reason of his questioning their judgment as to the poetical merit of his compositions, to make a selection, which they assured him would fur- nish matter for a small volume. After some hesitation, he listened to their suggestions, and in the year 1806 published the volume, the second impression of which, with additions, is now submitted to the reader. The ensuing year presents an era in Mr. Rushton's life, distinguished by an event equally grateful and astonishing — the restoration of Ids sight. In the autumn of 1805 he had received various accounts of successful practice, which led him to entertain a high opinion of the skill of Mr. Gibson, of Manchester, as an oculist. He was himself well acquainted with the anatomy of the eye, and still occasionally cherished a lingering' hope that his case was not in itself desperate. He therefore, after long deliberation, went over to Manchester, and was highly pleased to find that Mr. Gibson's opinion was favourable. The issue of the proposed experiment was of course very uncertain, and he was duly warned that the process of treatment would be extremely painful. But from the idea of pain he was the last person in the world to shrink. When he had ascertained to his own satisfaction the grounds of Mr. Gibson's expectations of success, he put him- self unreservedly into his hands. The process was indeed tedious and painful. Five times was it neces- sary for him to submit to the scalpel ; but at length hjs patience under acute sufferings was amply re- warded. After the long interval of thirty years, light revisited his eyes. His feelings on this occasion may- be imagined 5 but no one can describe them but him- self. And he did describe them, in lines addressed to his skilful benefactor, which do equal honour to his genius and his heart. His sight, indeed, was some- what misty ; but it was so far restored, that he could accurately distinguish colours, and the lineaments of EDVVAKD RUSHTON. XXV the human countenance. He could even discern and discriminate distant objects. He could walk the streets without a guide ; and, by the aid of a glass, could read tolerably sized print. According to his own remark, a person passing from perfect sight to the degree of vision which he then possessed, would have deemed it a misfortune, but to himself, who passed to it from total darkness, it appeared to be heaven . The remainder of his life was little varied by inci- dent. In the new gratification of reading, he spent his leisure hours usefully and pleasantly. Being more qualified than in former years to enjoy the pleasures of society, he enlarged a little the circle of his ac- quaintance, and his days passed on in happiness j which was, however, in the year 1811, painfully in- terrupted by the death of his wife, who had been a kind and faithful partner of his various fortunes, — and of a daughter, who was admired and esteemed by all who knew her. These afflictive events he survived about three years. His death was occasioned by a rash attempt to get rid of a fit of illness by means of an empirical medicine. Notwithstanding his habitual temperance, and his general abstinence from all fermented liquors, he was occasionally visited by severe attacks of the gout, to dispel which he had for three or four years previously XXVI LIFE OF to his death been in the habit of taking the Eau Me- dicinale. On the approach of a fit in the month of November, 1814, he had, as usual, recourse to this dangerous medicine, which, contrary to its usual course of operation, brought on violent sickness. So severe was the shock which his constitution received, that the morning after he had taken the draught, his son, as he stood by his bed-side, expressed some fears respecting its effects : but Mr. Rushton was un- shaken in his belief in its salutary powers, and imme- diately rose, to convince his son that his apprehensions were groundless. But he was so weak, that when he attempted to walk, he reeled, and, if his son had not caught him, would have fallen. From this period he languished, with occasional alteration of symptoms, till, at half-past two in the morning of Tuesday the twenty-second of November, a suffusion on the brain took place, his right side was paralyzed, and his breath- ing became heavy and laborious. The usual remedies, resorted to in extreme cases, were applied in vain, and at five o'clock in the afternoon he died without a strug- gle, and, apparently, without pain. From the foregoing sketch of the life of Edward Rushton, the reader will have observed that he was a man of enlightened intellect, and of uncommon mental energy. Estimating action and character by the scale of principle, he regulated his own conduct by the EDWARD RUSIITON. maxims of the strictest integrity. In the midst of poverty he was proud and independent in spirit. The idea of independence, indeed, he perhaps carried some- what too far, in occasionally declining, though with due respect, the offered courtesies of kindness and hospitality, on the part of friends who were superior to him in station and fortune. But Edward Rushton was au assertor of freedom ; and he had observed, with pain and indignation, that many who assumed that title, availed themselves of it to prey upon the bounty of the rich and generous advocates of liberal prin- ciples. He determined to adopt a far different line of conduct — to gain respect and to merit encouragement by laborious industry in a stated employment, and by foregoing all indigencies which might unwarrantably trench upon his little means. From the mendicant and pensioned patriot, living a wandering and desul- tory life of alternate distress and luxury, he turned his view, with just admiration, to Andrew Marvel in his garret. But, though severe to himself, he was kind to others. As a husband and a parent he was truly exemplary ; and to deserving characters who were poorer than himself, he was, to the full extent of his abilities, hospitable and liberal. To oppression of every kind he was a determined enemy. As a politi- cian, however, he was rather a speculator than an actor. His principles in politics were, in his maturer XXV111 LIFE OF years, republican, and of course, were rather the sub- ject of private discussion than of assertion in public debate. Hence, dwelling in his own mind on the abstractions of theory, he took little or no part in the struggles of the parties of the day. On these subjects, he perhaps conceded too little to expediency. Per- haps he was sometimes too rigorous in his judgment of political measures and of political characters. But let it not be imagined that such men as Edward Rushton are useless to society. Mankind in general are much too quick sighted in spying out occasions, on which they imagine that the rule of right must not be interpreted too strictly. In these cases, even the profligate politician may be held in check by that censorship of the public, which always grounds its verdict on the opinion of enlightened individuals. Jf there did not exist in the various classes of the com- munity men of high toned mind, who fearlessly and inexorably apply to public actions the test of prin- ciple, the general body of a great people would speedily be corrupted by low intrigue, and the pride of freedom would degenerate to the reptile meanness of slavery. POEMS. MEMORY OF ROBERT BURNS. 'NEATH the green turf, dear nature's child, Sublime, pathetic, artless, wild, Of all thy quips and cranks, despoil'd, Cold dost thou lie, And many a youth and maiden mild Shall o'er thee sigh. Those powers that eagle-wing'd could soar, That heart which ne'er was cold before, That tongue which caused the table's roar, Are now laid low, And Scotia's sons shall hear no more Thy rapturous flow. POEMS. Warm'd with a ' spark of nature's fire/ From the rough plough thou didst aspire, To make a sordid world admire, And few like thee, Oh Burns ! have swept the minstrel's lyre With ecstacy. Ere winter's icy vapours fail, The violet in the uncultur'd dale So sweetly scents the passing gale, That shepherd boys, Led by the fragrance they inhale, Soon find their prize. So, when to life's chill glens confiri'd, Thy rich, tho' rough, uncultur'd mind, Pour'd on the sense of each rude hind Such dulcet lays, That to thy brow was soon assigned The wreath of praise. POEMS. Anon, with nobler daring blest, The wild notes throbbing at thy breast, Of friends, wealth, learning, unpossess'd, Thy fervid mind Towards fame's proud turrets boldly press'd, And pleas 'd mankind. But what avail'd thy powers to please, When want approach'd, and pale disease ; Could these thy infant brood appease, That wail'd for bread ? Or could they for a moment ease Thy woe-worn head ? Applause, poor child of minstrelsey, Was all the world e'er gave to thee ; Unmov'd, by pinching penury They saw thee torn, And now (kind souls) with sympathy, Thy loss they mourn. POEMS. Oh ! how I loathe the haughty train, Who oft had heard thy witching strain, Yet when thy frame was rack'd with pain, Could keep aloof, And eye, with opulent disdain, Thy lowly roof. Yes, proud Dumfries, oh ! would to heaven Thou hadst from that cold spot been driven, Thou might' st have found some sheltering haven On this side Tweed ; Yet ah ! e'en here poor bards have striven, And died in need. True genius scorns to natter knaves, Or crouch amidst a race of slaves, His soul, while fierce the tempest raves, No tremor knows, And with unshaken nerve he braves Life's pelting woes. POEMS. No wonder then that thou should' st find Th' averted glance of half mankind, Should'st see the sly, slow, supple mind To wealth aspire, While scorn, neglect, and want, combin'd To quench thy fire. When wint'ry winds pipe loud and strong, The high perch'd storm-cock pours his song, So thy Eolian lyre was strung 'Midst chilling times ; Yet cheerly did'st thou roll along Thy 'routh of rhymes And oh ! that routh of rhymes shall raise For thee a lasting pile of praise. Haply some Bard in these our days, Has higher soar'd ; But from the heart more melting lays Were never pour'd. > POEMS. Where Ganges rolls his yellow tide, Where blest Columbia's waters glide, Old Scotia's sous, spread far and wide, Shall oft rehearse, With sorrow some, but all with pride, Thy witching verse. In early spring thy earthy bed, Shall be with many a wild flower spread, The violet there its sweets shall shed, In humble guise, And there the mountain-daisy's head Shall duly rise. While darkness reigns, should bigotry, With boiling blood and bended knee, ^Scatter the weeds of infamy O'er thy cold clay, Those weeds, at light's first blush, shall be Soon swept away. POEMS. And when thy scorners are no more, The lonely glens, and sea- beat shore, Where thou hast croon'd thy fancies o'er, With soul elate, Oft shall the bard at eve explore, And mourn thy fate. 8 POEMS. MARY LE MORE. AH ! cold-hearted strangers, your merciless doings. Long, long, must the children of Erin deplore, All sad is my soul when I view yon black ruins, Where once stood the cabin of Mary le More. Her father, God rest him ! lov'd Ireland most dearly, All our wrongs, all our sufferings, he felt most severely, And with freedom's firm sons, he united sincerely, But gone is the father of Mary le More. One cold winter's eve, as poor Dermot sat musing, Hoarse curses alarm'd him, and crash went the door, TV assailants soon entered, and straight 'gan abusing, The brave, and mild father, of Mary le More. To their scoffs he replied not — with blows they assail'd him, He felt all indignant — his caution now fail'd him, He return'd their vile blows, and all Munster bewail'd him, For stabb'd was the father of Mary le More. poems. y The children's wild screams, and the mother's distrac- tion, While the father, the husband, lay stretch'd in his gore, Ah ! who can describe and not curse the foul faction, Which blasted that rose-bud, sweet Mary le More. Oh ! my father ! my father ! she cried, wildly throwing Her arms round his neck, while the life's stream was flowing, She kissed his cold lips, but poor Dermot was going, He groan 'd — and left fatherless Mary le More. With destruction uncloy'd, this inhuman banditti, Tho' the rain fell in sheets, and the wind it blew sore, These friends of the castle, these foes to all pity, Set fire to the cabin of Mary le More. The mother and children, half naked and shrieking, Escaped from the flames where poor Dermot lay reeking, And while these sad victims for shelter were seeking, Ah ! mark what befel the sweet Mary le More, c 10 POEMS. From her father's pale cheek, which her lap had sup- ported, To an out-house these ruffians the lovely girl bore, With her prayers, her entreaties, her sorrows, they sported, And ruin'd, by force, the sweet Mary le More. And now a poor maniac, she roams the wild common, 'Gainst the cold-hearted strangers she warns every woman, And she sings of her father in strains more than human, Till tears often flow for poor Mary le More. Oh ! Ireland's fair daughters, your country's salvation, While the waves of old ocean shall beat round your shore, Remember the woes of your long shackled nation, Remember the wrongs of poor Mary le More. And while your blue eyes are with pity o'erflowing, Or with strong indignation your white bosoms glowing, Oh ! reflect that the tree of delight may yet grow in The soil where now wanders poor Mary le More. POEMS. 11 THE MANIAC. AS I stray'd o'er a common on Cork's rugged border, When the dew-drops of morn the sweet primrose array' d, I saw a poor female, whose mental disorder, Her quick-glancing eye and wild aspect betray'd. On the sward she reclined, by the green fern surrounded, At her side speckled daisies and crow flowers abounded, To its inmost recess her poor heart had been wounded, Her sighs were unceasing, 'twas Mary le More. Her charms by the keen blast of sorrow were faded, Yet the soft tinge of beauty still play'd on her cheek, Her tresses a wreath of pale primroses braided, And strings of fresh daisies hung loose on her neck. Whilst with pity I gazed, she exclaimed, oh my mother ! See the blood on that lash ! 'tis the blood of my brother ! They have torn his poor flesh, and they now strip another, 'Tis Connor, the friend of poor Mary le More. 12 POEMS. T ho' his locks are as white as the foam on the ocean, Those soldiers shall find that my father is brave. My father ! she cried, with the wildest emotion, Ah ! no, my poor father now sleeps in his grave ! They have toll'd his death bell, they have laid the turf o'er him, His white locks were bloody, no aid can restore hirn, He is gone* he is gone, and the good will deplore him, When the blue wave of Erin hides Mary le More. A lark, from the gold-blossom'd furze that grew near her, Now rose and with energy caroll'd his lay, Hush ! hush ! she continued, the trumpet sounds clearer, The horsemen approach — Erin's daughters away ! Ah strangers ! 'twas foul, while the cabin was burning, And o'er her pale father a wretch had been mourning, Go hide with the sea mew ye maids and take warning, Those ruffians have ruin'd poor Mary le More ! POEMS. 13 Away ! bring the ointment ! oh God see those gashes ! Alas, my poor brother ! come dry the big tear, Anon we'll have vengeance for these dreadful lashes, Already the screech owls and ravens appear ! By day the green grave that is under the willow, With wild flowers I'll strew, and by night make my pillow, Till the ooze and dark sea-weed beneath the curl'd billow, Shall furnish a death-bed for Mary le More. Thus raved the poor maniac, in tones more heart- rending, Than sanity's voice ever pour'd on my ear, When lo ! on the waste, and their march towards her bending, A troop of fierce cavalry chanced to appear. Oh the fiends ! she exclaim 'd, and with wild horror started, Then through the tall fern, loudly screaming, she darted, With an overcharg'd bosom I slowly departed, And sigh'd for the wrongs of poor Mary le More. 14 POEMS. mary's death. TO the cliffs, while below the huge surges are foaming, No more with wan cheek shall poor Mary retire, Thro' the dark waving fern shall no more be seen roaming, Nor chaunting wild strains o'er the grave of her sire. Ah no ! the straw shed in which Dermot delighted, And Dermot, whose vows to poor Erin were plighted, And Dermot' s sweet rose-bud so shamefully blighted, Like the blue mists of morn are all melted away. Yes, Erin's fair daughters, the love-beaming Mary, Whose bosom had nothing of snow but its hue ; Who was once, like yourselves, all attractive and airy, Has bow'd her sweet head, and bade outrage adieu. No more the unfeeling despoiler shall harm her, Nor the blood-sprinkled scythe of oppression alarm her, Nor can all the soft joys of the cabin now charm her, For the winds deeply moan as they sweep o'er her grave. POEMS. 15 Though her cheek grew more wan, and more languid each motion, Yet still to her haunts she would daily withdraw ; Would climb to the verge of the blue rolling ocean, Or roam the wide heath with her basket of straw. And still from those scenes , with the day-star descending, A few whispering children her footsteps attending, She would hie to the willow, and mournfully bending, Would scatter fresh flowers o'er the grave of her sire. Like the pale frosted floweret, to earth slow returning, Thus the sufferer declined whilst her relatives mourn'd, Yet still the hoarse rage of the elements scorning. To the grave of her father she duly return'd. When lo ! at the close of a day dark and dreary, From the sea fowls' bleak craigs, came the once beau- teous Mary, All drench'd were her clothes and her steps faint and weary, Yet in tones wildly sweet thus she sung o'er her sire : 16 POEMS. ' ' Ah ! view the long grass, see it waves as in sadness, " It sighs in the blast and its green head is low ; c< When, when, shall I wing to the regions of gladness, * ' Dear mother come strip me this 'kerchief of snow. " I saw the red arm, saw the steel's dreadful gleaming, " Oh ! how cold were his lips, while the life's blood was streaming, "On the verge of yon cloud see his bright form is beaming, "He beckons, and hark, oh ! 'tis Mary he calls." And now the poor soul, while the bleak winds swept o'er her, On her father's cold grave sigh'd her being away, And long shall thy daughters, oh Erin ! deplore her, And deck the green turf that now mantles her clay ; And at eve, when the spoiler's dark doings are stated, The fate of poor Dermot shall oft be related, And the cabin's brave tenants, with fire unabated, Shall brand thy destroyers, sweet Mary le More. POEMS. 17 FIRE OF ENGLISH LIBERTY, WHEN o'er this sea-encircled ground The Norman conqueror grimly frown'd, And bade his curfew ring. With sullen brow, the Saxon hind, To the straw couch his limbs con sign' d, And curs'd his tyrant king. And long beneath the oppressor's sway, With scowling eye, poor England lay, And quench'd were all her fires ; Yet thy small spark, oh ! liberty, E'en then survived each dark decree, And glimmered 'mongst our sires. 18 POEMS. From reign to reign it smoulder'd on, Scarce warming, till dark-visag'd John, Beheld the rising flame ; He saw, and by it sign'd that deed, Which makes thy sward, oh ! Runnymede, For ever dear to fame. This sacred fire, thro' many an age Of mental gloom and civil rage, A varied heat bestow'd ; But when the intrepid Hampden bled, And Charles was number'd with the dead, An awful flame it glow'd. This lighted Belgic William o'er, — This scar'd a Stuart from our shore, And shew'd an abject world, With how much ease, despotic kings, Those foul, inflated, plundering things, May from their thrones be hurl'd. POEMS. 19 Unawed by man's infuriate foes, 'Twas thus our sturdy fathers rose, And guarded freedom's fire -, Which we, a mean degenerate race, Corrupt, luxurious, sordid, base, Are suffering to expire. Go then, ye reprobated few, With souls to freedom ever true, Whom tyrants ne'er shall tame, Go, spread the cheerless embers round, And should a few faint sparks be found, Oh ! fan them into flame. Soon may this fire again appear, Again a prostrate people cheer, Again be watched with zeal ; Soon may its light illume each land, Its heat the human heart expand, Till the vast world shall feel. 20 POEMS. Whate'er the tongue — what'er the hue- Whate'er the bliss they may pursue, Or clime which gave them birth ; Oh ! liberty, may'st thou be given, As bounteous as the light of heaven, To all the sons of earth. POEMS. 21 THE SWALLOW. GO place the swallow on yon turfy bed, Much will he struggle, but can never rise ; Go raise him even with the daisy's head, And the poor flutterer like an arrow flies. So, oft thro' life, the man of powers and worth, Haply the caterer for an infant train, Like Burns, must struggle on the bare- worn earth, While all his efforts to arise are vain. Yet should the hand of relative, or friend, Just from the surface lift the suffering wight, Soon would the wings of industry extend, Soon would he rise from anguish to delight. Go then, ye affluent ! go, your hands outstretch, And from despair's dark verge, oh ! raise the woe- worn wretch. 22 POEMS. BLINDNESS. AH ! think, if June's delicious rays The eye of sorrow can illume, Or wild December's beamless days Can fling o'er all a transient gloom. Ah ! think, if skies obscure or bright, Can thus depress or cheer the mind, Ah ! think, 'midst clouds of utter night, What mournful moments wait the Blind. And who shall tell his cause for woe, To love the wife he ne'er must see ; To be a sire, yet not to know The silent babe that climbs his knee ? To have his feelings daily torn, With pain, the passing meal to find -, To live distress'd, and die forlorn, Are ills that oft await the blind. POEMS. 23 When to the breezy uplands led, At noon, or blushing eve, or morn, He hears the redbreast o'er his head, While round him breathes the scented thorn. But oh ! instead of nature's face, Hills, dales, and woods, and streams combined, Instead of tints, and forms, and grace, Night's blackest mantle shrouds the Blind. If rosy youth, bereft of sight, 'Midst countless thousands, pines unblest, As the gay flower withdrawn from light, Bows to the earth where all must rest. Ah ! think, when life's declining hours To chilly penury are consign'd, And pain has palsied all his powers, Ah ! think what woes await the Blind. 24 POEMS. APPROACH OF THE GOUT. 'TIS strange that thou shouldst leave the downy bed, The Turkey carpet, and the soft settee, Shouldst leave the board with choicest dainties spread, To fix thy odious residence with me ! 'Tis strange, that thou, attach'd to plenteous ease, Shouldst leave those dwellings for a roof like mine, Where plainest meals keen appetites appease, And where thou wilt not find one drop of wine ! 'Tis passing strange ! yet shouldst thou persevere, And fill these bones with agonizing pangs, Firm as a rock thy tortures will I bear, And teach the affluent how to bear thy fangs. Yes, shouldst thou visit me, capricious gout, Hard fare shall be thy lot, by Jove ! I'll starve thee out. POEMS, 25 TO FRANCE. CANST thou, who burst with proud disdain, Each high-wrought link of slavery's chain j Canst thou, who cleansed, with noble rage, Th' Augean filth of many an age ; Canst thou, whose mighty vengeance hurl'd Destruction on thy foes — the world, Yet bade the infuriate slaughter cease, When vanquish'd despots whined for peace j Canst thou, France ! from heights like these descend, And with each nerve unbraced— to proud Napoleon bend ? Was it for this thy warriors rose, And paralyzed vast hordes of foes ? For this, all prodigal of life, They rush'd amid the bellowing strife, And like the desert's burning breath, Where'er they rush'd, they scattered death ? D 26 POEMS. For this, with many a gaping wound, Thy daring sons have strew'd the ground, And girt with smoaking gore, and hills of slain, Have gloried in their cause, and spurn'd the oppressor's chain ? When vaunting freemen join'd the array, And gloomy squadrons prowl'd for prey, Was it for this, beneath the wave Thy seamen found an oozy grave ? For this, when all around was wreck, And mingled horrors stain 'd the deck, When slowly setting towards their fate, While the broad banners waved elate, Was it for this they Vive la Nation ! cried, Scorn'd the submissive act, and felt the overwhelming tide? Was it for this the sorrowing sire Has seen his bleeding boy expire ? POEMS. 27 For this, the matron, sad and pale, Has told her son's disastrous tale ? For this, the widow oft has press'd> With tears, the nursling to her breast ? Was it to lift the ambitious soul Of one, above the law's control, That thus dire war left millions to deplore, And the broad earth and seas were tinged with human gore ? No ! — fearless France shall ne'er be found Like the huge brute on India's ground, That through the ranks impetuous sweeps, And loads the field with mangled heaps, And yet, each scene of carnage o'er, Obeys that goad he felt before j No ! — fearless France shall still maintain Those rights that millions died to gain, And soon, tho' laurel wreathes her chains adorn, Shall shew a grovelling world that chains are still her scorn. 28 POEMS. O France ! thy energetic soul Will never brook unjust control ; Will never crouch to slavery's load, Nor bear the oppressor's iron goad : No ! — France, who bade her monarch fall, Will ne'er before this idol crawl ; Will ne'er receive with abject awe, A martial miscreant's will as law j No j — banish fear, ye friends of human kind, France to a giant's arm unites a towering mind. He who o'erwhelms his country's foe, Yet lays his country's freedom low, Must fear, tho' girt with guards and state, From each bold arm the stroke of fate -, And thou, usurping warrior, thou, To whom the weak and timid bow ; Thou splendid curse, whose actions prove That states may be undone by love : Thou foe to man, upheld by martial breath, Thy march is on a mine — thy every dream is death, POEMS. 29 And when this meteor's baleful rays Are lost in freedom's ardent blaze, Yes, when indignant France shall rise, Her form all nerve, all fire her eyes, And scorning e'en the bayonet's sway, Shall sweep the audacious wretch away, Then, with degraded mien, no more Shall man his fellow-man adore $ Then o'er his powers shall principle preside, And the bright star of Truth shall prove his polar guide. 30 POEMS. ON THE DEATH OF HUGH MULLIGAN. A Bard from the Mersey is gone, Whose carols with energy flow'd, Whose harp had a wildness of tone, And a sweetness but rarely bestow'd. Then say — ye dispensers of fame, Of wreathes that for ages will bloom, Ah ! say> shall poor Mulligan's name, Go silently down to the tomb ? When the lordly are called from their state, The marble their virtue imparts, Yet the marble, ye insolent great, Is often less cold than your hearts. POEMS. 31 When the life of the warrior is o'er. His deeds every tongue shall rehearse, And now a pale Bard is no more, Ah ! would you deny him a verse ? The thrush from the icicled bough, Gives his song to the winterly gale, And the violet, 'midst half melted snow, Diffuses its sweets thro' the vale. And thus, while the minstrel T mourn, 'Mid the blasts of adversity pined, While he droop'd all obscure and forlorn, He pour'd his wild sweets on the wind. Tho' the clouds that had sadden'd his days, Were scatter'd and tinged near the close ; Tho' he saw a few comforting rays, 'Twas too late, and he sunk to repose. 32 POEMS. So the bark, that fierce winds has endur'cU And the shocks of the pitiless wave, Finds a harbour, yet scarcely is moor'd, When she sinks to the dark oozy grave. To the turf where poor Mulligan lies, The lover of genius shall stray, And there should a rank weed arise, He shall pluck the intruder away. But lowly, and simple, and sweet, Ah ! should the wild violet appear, ' He will sigh o'er an emblem so meet, And will water its cup with a tear. POEMS. 33 LINES ADDRESSED TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ON READING HI& "CARMEN TRIUMPHALE." WHEN man's great curse, despotic sway, Sweeps myriads from the realms of day j When wide o'er all the Christian world Destruction's banners are unfurl'd ; When Europe with exhaustion reels, Yet nor remorse nor pity feels 5 At this dread period Southey stands, The wild harp trembling in his hands, And whilst fanatic furor fires his mind, "Glory to God," he cries, " deliverance for mankind. E 34 POEMS. Ah, Southey, if thy boyish brood Were prone to shed each other's blood, Thou couldst not, with unruffled mien, Behold the agonizing scene. Why then suppose the Sire of All Is pleased to see his creatures fall ? Why then, if carnage strew the ground, And. groans, and shrieks, and yells abound ; — Why then, if ruthless havoc lord it wide, Should bigot rage exult, and God be glorified ? I grieve when earth is drenched with gore, And realms with woe are covered o'er ; I grieve, and reprobate the plan. Of thanking God for sJaughter'd man : Nor can I hope that lawless sway, Fierce as a tiger o'er its prey, Will ever, uncompeU'd, resign That powen the priest proclaims divine ; No, Southey, no ! oppressors ne'er unbind ? 'Tis man — high-minded man, must liberate mankind. POEMS. 35 Appall'd by superstitious cares. Despots of yore have crown'd their heirs j But when, oh, Southey ! tell me, when Have despots raised their slaves to men ? Votaries of power, to this they bend, For this eternally contend j Whilst man, let despots rise or fall, Poor abject man, submits to all ; And shouki dais wrongs beyond endurance swell, Here glares the State's red arm, and there an endles hell. Whether of home or foreign growth, All despots from my soul I loathe j And as to rights — I should as soon Expect a charter from the moon, As hope to see a courtly train Combined to cherish Freedom's reign — Combined to humanize the heart, And bid the nurse's dreams depart: No, Southey, no ! these seourges, when combined, May desolate a world, but never free mankind. 36 POEMS. If proof be wanting, France may show, In man's great cause how Monarchs glow : Thou know'st, when one immortal stroke Her lacerating shackles broke 5 Thou know'st how Europe's savage swarms Flew, like infuriate fiends, to arms j And how the vaunting legions came, To quench a never-dying flame ; And well thou know'st how France sublimely rose, Bared her resistless arm, and crush'd the aggressing foes . If proof be wanting, turn thine eyes Where poor partitioned Poland lies ; By many a barbarous band assail'd j In Freedom's cause she fought — she fail'd ; She saw her children bite the dust, O'erwhelm'd by rapine, murder, lust ; She saw her cities blaze, and all That 'scaped the flames by ruffians fall , Transfix d by groves of pikes, she heard them groan, Then back into the flames saw writhing thousands thrown . POEMS. 37 Poor prostrate Poland ! here we find How despots liberate mankind j And here, unblushing bard, we see The savage hordes extoll'd by thee : But whether minstrels change with times, And scatter flowers o'er courtly crimes ; Or Truth's firm sons imprison'd lie, Or priests the reasoning powers decry ; Soon like those brutes that shun the nightly fire, From Freedom's holy flame shall man's fierce foes retire. POEMS. AMERICAN INDEPENDENCY. YE men of Columbia ! oh ! hail the great day Which nerved your gigantic domain. Which taught the oppress'd how to spurn lawless sway, And gave the vast world a new reign. Yes, hail the blest moment — when awfully grand, Your congress pronounced the decree, Which told ancient realms that your pine-covered land, Though coerced, was resolved to be free. Those warriors who fell in your soul-cheering cause, To the true sons of freedom are dear, Their worth the unborn shall rehearse with applause, And bedew their cold turf with a tear ! POEMS. 39 O cherish their names, let their sufferings and deeds Go forth, on the wings of the wind, And as man, prostrate man, your high destiny reads, May he learn his own chains to unbind. As he tills your rich glebe, the old peasant shall tell, While his bosom with energy glows, How your Warren expired — how Montgomery fell, And how Washington baffled your foes. With transport his offspring shall catch the glad sound, And as freedom illumines each breast, Their country's defenders with praise shall be crown'd, While her spoilers they learn to detest. By those fields that were ravaged, those towns that were fired, By those wrongs which your females endured, By those blood- sprinkled groves, where your warriors expired, O preserve what their prowess procured. 40 POEMS. And reflect that your rights are the rights of mankind, That to all they were bounteously given, And that he who in chains would his fellow-man bind, Uplifts his proud arm against heaven. How can you, who have felt the oppressor's hard hand, Who for freedom all perils would brave, How can you enjoy peace, while one foot of your land Is disgraced by the toil of a slave ! O ! rouse then in spite of a merciless few, And pronounce this immortal decree, Whate'er be man's tenets, his fortune, his hue, He is man, and shall therefore be free. POEMS. 41 DEATH OF A MUCH LOVED RELATIVE. SHALT thou, oh my lister ! my friend ! Go down to the sorrowful cell ; And shall I the sad pageant attend, And not bid thee a solemn farewell ? Yes, yes, the farewell shall be thine In a strain thou wert wont to approve, And oh ! while remembrance is mine, I will mournfully cherish thy love. From the world when mere kindred retire, The wounds of the bosom soon heal, But when those we delight in expire, To the heart's deep recesses we feel. 42 POEMS, Ah ! Bessey, through life's chequer'd way, Thou wert never unmindful of me, Nor do I remember the day When I felt not affection for thee. Now memory recalls the sweet hours, When in childhood we gaily have stroll'd, Have gather'd the dew- spangled flowers, Or adown the loved brow we have roll'd - f And perchance when with exercise warm'd, As we sat on the earth's verdant lap, For thee the bark-pipe I have form'd, Or with rushes have made thee a cap. When a sea-boy just 'scaped from on board, Just 'scaped from a pestilent sky, Thy rapture remembrance has stored, And the beams of thy dark-laughing eye ; And oh ! when of vision bereft, And when science pronounced the decree, To my agonized soul there was left An affectionate soother in thee. POEMS. 43 'Twas thus, oh ! my sister ! my friend ! With our beings our fondness increased, Wert thou wrong' d, I was proud to defend, If I sorrow'd, thy gaiety ceased. And when other duties were known, When our cares with our little ones grew, The sun of our kindness still shone, And no dark chilling mists ever knew. As droops the wild rose on the spray, When the clouds not a rain-drop bestow, So wert thou slowly wither'd aAvay, By the hectic's infuriate glow. And now deeply worn, yet serene, And more softly than falls the light leaf, Thou hast glided from life's flowery scene, And o'erwhelm'd thy connexions with grief. Ah ! couldst thou thy partner descry, As he hangs o'er those pledges so dear, Couldst thou witness the deep- heaving sigh, While his cheek is bedew'd with a tear ; 44 POEMS. Couldst thou pierce the deep folds of the heart, And thy relatives see undisguised, Ah ! Bessey, the view would impart How worth and how sweetness are prized. And now while my tremulous woes, To these poor beamless eyeballs upswell, Oh ! let the warm tear as it flows, Be my silent, my solemn farewell. Thou art gone, dearest friend of my heart ! Thou art gone to the awful unknown, And, hereafter, wherever thou art, Oh ! may I on that region be thrown. POEMS. 45 TO THE MEMORY OF THE UNFORTUNATE CHATTERTON. OH ! thou, who many a silent hour, Sat'st brooding o'er thy plans profound, Oh, Chatterton ! thou fairest flower That ever graced poetic ground ; Twas thine, in lyrics sweet and strong, To bear the enraptured soul along 5 Twas thine to paint domestic woe, And bid the drops of pity flow j Twas thine, in Homer's glowing strain, To sing contention's bloody reign ; And oh ! 'twas thine, with unfledged wings to spar, Upborne by native fire, to heights untried before. 46 POEMS. In lonely paths, and church-yards drear, When shrouded pale-eyed ghosts are seen, When many a wild note strikes the ear, From fairies revelling on the green, Then didst thou oft, with daring fire, Sweep o'er the solemn gothic lyre ; Then, whilst the broad moon lent her aid, (a) To times long past thy fancy stray'd, Then Hastings' field was heap'd with dead, And Birtha mourn' d, and Baldwin bled ; Yet what to thee did poesy produce ? Why — when on earth neglect, when in the grave abuse. Ah penury ! thou chilling sprite, Thou pale depressor of the mind, That with a cloud opaque as night, Veil'st many a genius from mankind. Ah ! what avails the minstrel's art, That melts and animates the heart, If at his side, with haggard mien And palsied step, thy form is seen j POEMS. 47 When on thy sterile common thrown. The strongest powers must pine unknown ! But mark the world — let wealthy witlings raise The decorated lyre, and all applaud the lays. When all is hush'd, full oft to thee, Poor child of song, I sorrowing turn, Full oft bewail thy misery,, Full oft with indignation burn. Heavens ! that a genius such as thine, Equal to every vast design, A genius form'd in Shakspeare's mould, Untutor'd, piercing, clear, and bold, Should pour, in these enlighten'd days, On Britain's ear such matchless lays, Yet find on British ground neglect and woe, And envy's cankering sting, when in the grave below ! Oh poesy ! delusive power, Thou ignis fatuus of the soul, Thou syren of the solemn hour, That lurest full oft to scenes of dole, 48 POEMS. Oh ! how seducing are thy smiles ! How powerful all thy witching wiles ! Yet in the foldings of thy train, Lurk squalled want and mental pain. See where thy wretched victim lies, What frantic wildness in his eyes ! Hark how he groans ! see, see, he foams ! he gasps ! And his convulsive hand the poisonous phial grasps ! Stung by the world's neglect and scorn, While conscious merit fired his mind, Unfriended, foodless, and forlorn, (b) With lowering eye the bard reclined ; When lo ! his mantle cover'd o'er, With streaming, and with clotted gore, The offspring of despair and pride, Came stalking in, fell Suicide, Wreaths of dark foxglove, hemlock green, And poppy round his brows were seen, And now his purpose dire, his blood-stain'd eyes, And rugged front, were veil'd in soft Compassion's guise. POEMS 49 Roused from his gloom aghast and wild, " Ah ! what art thou ?" — the minstrel cried, With wily tongue and aspect mild ; ' f Thy guardian power," the form replied, " Sweet bard — ah ! why dost thou remain " On this vile orb, this scene of pain ? " Art thou not steep'd in blackest woe ? ' ' Hast thou a single patron ? no : " Or can thy sweetly sounding lyre " Make stern necessity retire ? " If not, be firm, these sordid reptiles spurn, ff (Oh Phoebus' glowing son !) and to thy sire return/' Stung to the soul, the hapless boy, With greedy ears the sounds devour'd, This the grim phantom saw with joy, And still the wordy poison pour'd j Till slackening every selfish spring, Which makes us to existence cling, "Would I a worthless world adorn," He cried — " that merits but thy scorn ? G 50 POEMS. <( No, misery's son, this cordial take, " And want, neglect, and pain forsake !" With pale distracted look, the youth complied, Tore many a beauteous lay, and in wild ravings died. Unshelter'd, wither'd, scarcely blown, Thus like a blasted flower he fell, Thus pin'd, unnotic'd or unknown, Thus bade a sorr owing scene farewell. Gaze on his corse, ye gloomy train, Whom fortune tries to bless — in vain. Gaze on his corse, ye foodies s crowd, And you whom torturing pangs have bow'd : Gaze, too, ye ardent sons of song, Whom haply cold neglect has stung, And when ideas black and sad arise, Should Suicide appear — oh ! spurn him and be wise ! Thus headlong rush'd the indignant soul, From earth, where tides of rancour flow j Where folly's sons in affluence roll, While merit droops o'erwhelm'd with woe. POEMS. 51 Ye generous minds, if such there are, Who make neglected worth your care, Where dwelt you when he gazed around, And not one gleam of comfort found ? Oh what a deed ! What endless fame Had twined around that mortal's name, Who from despair had snatch'd this wondrous boy, Foster'dhis towering muse, and flush'd his soul with joy! And one there was, sweet fancy's child, (c) Whilst thou wert listening to the shade, One reverend sage, humane and mild, Was then on wing to give thee aid -, And scarcely had the parish shell Convey'd thee to the cold dark cell, When lo ! he came, O piteous tale, But, pity ! what wilt thou avail ? He came, by love of genius led, Intent to raise thy drooping head $ He came, he sigh'd, and down the stream of time, For this his praise shall flow in many a splendid rhyme. 62 POEMS. Borne to the grave without a friend, The workhouse glebe received thy clay, (dj Thus did thy scrap of breathing end, But oh ! thy fame shall ne'er decay. E'en Radcliff and her flowery plains, Where thou hast ponder'd o'er thy. strains, Thy natal roof, thy earthy bed, Scarce known amidst the unhonour'd dead, When thy proud scorners are no more, And moths have knaw'd their pedant lore, E'en these the sons of fancy shall revere, Sigh o'er thy mournful fate, and drop the sorrowing tear. For thee Compassion oft shall plead, Her tenderest plaints for thee shall flow, Her hand shall brush away each weed, Which envy o'er thy turf may throw ; And kindly soft that hand shall bring, For thee each blighted flower of spring, . The violet, scenting nature's breath, Then from her storms receiving death, POEMS. 53 The lowly primrose born to blow, Then whelm'd beneath the drifted snow, And oft with these, and tufts of wither'd bloom, Compassion, dewy-eyed, shall deck thy early tomb. And now, where'er thy spirit stalks, Great framer of the antique lay, Whether thou haunt' st thy favourite walks, Or hover'st o'er thy bed of clay 5 Whether, with Savage at thy side, Thou blam'st the world's contempt and pride ; Whether thou talk'st with Ot way's shade, Of all the misery life display'd, Or glid'st in gloomy guise along, Aloof from all the ghastly throng, From one inured to many a mental pain, Oh ! deign, immortal youth ! to accept this heartfelt strain. 54 POEMS. THE LEVIATHAN. AS when the huge Leviathan is seen, Torpid and slumbering midst his native ice, The seamen ply the oar with anxious mien, Quick every eye, and noiseless every voice 5 And now the keen harpoon its entrance makes, At first unfelt, till deeper grows the wound, When lo ! the enormous animal awakes, And his broad tail spreads devastation round. — So when a nation cold and sluggish lies, Silent and slow the oppressor drives the steel, At first the wound's unfelt — again he tries, Deep sinks the shaft, and now the people feel, Pierced to the quick, the tail soon mounts on high, And splendour, wealth, and power, in one sad ruin lie. POEMS. 55 LUCY. KEEN blew the wind abaft the beam. The moon was wrapt in sable clouds, The reefs were in, and many a spray, High mounting, wash'd the weather shrouds ; The middle watch was nearly closed^ Hoarse thundering peals remote were heard, When, slowly moving o'er the deck, A shadowy female form appear'd. Her cheek was whiter than the foam That caps the huge Atlantic wave, Her lip was like the welkin's hue, Ere the dark storm begins to rave j 56 POEMS. Her form a winding-sheet conceal'd, She paused — and awful shook her head, Then with a hollow thrilling voice Thus to the fear-struck mate she said : — "Well may'st thou tremble, faithless wretch ; " Thy clammy brow, that stifled groan, "Those glaring eye-balls, all confess " That injured Lucy still is known, " Yes ! Edward, here behold the shade " Of her thy falsehood triumph'd o'er, " Of her who all thy vows believed, " Of her who fell to rise no more. " Didst thou not say my cheek display'd "The tropic morn's delicious bloom ? " Didst thou not say my breath excell'd " The ripe anana's rich perfume ? "Didst thou not say my azure eyes " Surpass'd the cloudless Indian sky ? " And yet, to gain a wealthy bride, " Say, didst not thou from Lucy fly ? POEMS. 57 " With pale and agonizing look " My mother heard the tale of woe, " And though she tried to soothe my pangs "Grief's silent throbs soon laid her low ; "To the cold grave I saw her borne, "Ab, Edward ! what a sight was there — " A mother prostrate in the dust ! " A daughter doom'd to dark despair ! " Abandon'd by the man I loved, ( c Cast on the world, o'erwhelm'd with shame, " I droop'd like some poor blasted flower, " And soon 1 bore a mother's name ; " My boy, my sweet one, breathed and died, " No tears of mine his turf bedew'd, "For withering grief had touch'd my brain, " And now I wander'd wild and rude. "Oft have I roam'd the flowery heath, " That skirts the ever-dashing wave, " And there have pluck'd the primrose pale, " To deck a mother's grassy grave j 58 POEMS. " And when the wintery tempest howl'd, " With naked head and bosom bare, " Oft have I swept the frozen snows, ff And laugh'dto scorn the troubled air. " Pale as the snow- drop on the waste, "Now wildly chaunting would I rove, "Now venting curses on thy head, " And now, all softness, breathing love j " Where sea-fowls lodge, last night of all, ie As on the breezy steep I stood, " Methought I heard thy well-known voice, "I scream'd, and headlong reach'd the flood. " And now all on a bed of weeds, " Full many a fathom deep is laid " That form thy wily tongue has praised, " That form thy faithless heart betray'd ; "But mark, oh Edward ! mark thy doom, <( Thou never more must peace enjoy, " By day remorse shall knaw thy breast, " By night my shade shall still be nigh. POEMS. 59 ei When livid lightnings flash around, "High on the yard I'll pierce thine ear, " In calms, with thee I'll walk the deck, " And cross thee midst the storm's career ! " At sea I'll haunt thy hammock's side, " And draw thy curtains when on shore, " Thy flesh shall waste, and soon or late " The dark, dark surge shall whelm thee o'er. Why tlii; pause ? Adoma. Jumba, thou mov'st me much. — Thy looks are wild, POEMS. 145 Thy gestures frantic, and — Jumba. If to be mild In such a cause were virtue, — on the ground Jumba would crawl, and court the wish'd-for wound. How oft, my friend, since first we trod these plains, Have trivial faults call'd forth the bitterest pains : How oft our tyrants, as they stood around, With joyous looks have view'd each bleeding wound j How oft to these, with tortures still uncloy'd, Have they the Eben's prickly branch applied ! And shall we still endure the keenest pain, And pay our butchers only with disdain ? Shall we, unmoved, still bear their coward blows ? No : — vengeance soon shall fasten on our foes, Lend but thy succour. Adoma. Comfort to my soul Thy words convey, and every fear control. Their last base cruel act so steels my heart, That in thy bold resolves I'll bear a part. 146 POEMS. JUMBA. Enough : our glorious aims shall soon succeed, And thou in turn shalt see the oppressors bleed : Soon shall they fall, cut down like lofty canes, And (oh ! the bliss) from us receive their pains. Oh ! 'twill be pleasant when we see them mourn, — See the fell cup to their own lip return, Then bid them think — Adoma. Hark ! from yon plaintain trees, Me thought a voice came floating on the breeze. Hark ! there again — Jumba. 'Tis so : our tyrants come ; At eve we'll meet again, — meantime be dumb. POEMS. 147 ECLOGUE THE SECOND. Time — Evening. The twinkling orbs which pierce the gloom of night ; Now shine with more than European light ; Slow from the vapoury mountain comes the breeze, And on its dewy wings sits pale disease., Rising from distant reefs and rocky shores, Where, vex'd with recent gales, old ocean roars ; Now up the slopes where spiry canes appear, A faint unwearied din assails the ear 5 The lurking reptiles now begin their rounds, And fill the air with shrill discordant sounds ; And now, with varied hum, in search of prey, Unnumber'd insects wheel their airy way ; There glowing fire seems borne upon the wing, And here the keen musquito darts his sting ; The weary negroes to their sheds return, Prepare their morsels, and their hardships mourn, 148 POEMS. Talk o'er their former bliss, their present woes, Then sink to earth and seek a short repose : 'Twas now the sable friends, in pensive mood, In a lone path their doleful theme renew'd. Adoma. Jumba, those words sunk deep into my heart, Which thou in friendship didst this morn impart • Still at my toil my mind revolved them o'er, But grew, the more I mused, dismay'd the more. Oh ! think on Pedro, gibbeted alive ! ( g-) Think on his fate — six long days to survive ! His frantic looks — his agonizing pain — His tongue outstretch'd to catch the dropping rain ; His vain attempts to turn his head aside, And gnaw the flesh which his own limbs supplied ; Think on his sufferings, when the inhuman crew, To increase his pangs, placed plaintains in his view And bade him eat. Jumba. If thus thy promise ends, — If thus thy dastard heart would aid thy friends, Awav, mean wretch, and view thy Yaro bleed, POEMS. 149 And bow submissive to the unmanly deed ! Thou speak'st of Pedro : — He possess'd a soul Which nobly burst the shackles of control. He fell betray'd, but boldly met his death, And cursed his tyrant with his latest breath. But go, Adoma, since to live is sweet, Go, like a dog, and lick the white men's feet ; Tell them that hunger, slavery, toil, and pain, Thou wilt endure, nor ever once complain j Tell them, though Jumba dares to plot their fall, That thou art tame, and wilt submit to all. Go, poor submissive slave, — go, meanly bend, Court thy oppressors, and betray thy friend. Adoma. How ! I betray my friend ! Oh ! Jumba, cease, Nor stab Adoma with such words as these. Death frights me not ; I wish revenge like thee ; But, oh ! I shudder at their cruelty. I could, undaunted, from the craggy steep Plunge, and be swallow'd in the raging deep ; Fearless I could, with manchineal, or knife, Or cord, or bullet, end this hated life ; 150 POEMS. But, oh ! my friend,- like Pedro to expire ! Or feel the pangs of slow-consuming fire ! These are most terrible — Jumba. A lingering pain Thou fear'st, and yet canst bear thy servile chain ! Canst bear incessant toil, and want of food ; Canst bear the driver's lash to drink thy blood ! Say, doom'd to these, what now does life supply But lingering pain, which must at length destroy ? Yet go, poor timid wretch ! go, fawn and grieve, And as those gashes heal still more receive : Go and submit, like oxen, to the wain, But never say thou fear'st a lingering pain. Adoma. Thy charge is just ; but, friend, there still remain Two ways to free us from this galling chain. Sure we can bid our various sorrows cease, By quitting life, or how, or when we please ; Or we can quickly fly these cruel whites, By seeking shelter in the mountains' heights, Where wild hogs rove, where lofty cocoas grow, POEMS. 151 And boiling streams of purest waters flow. There we might live ; for thou, with skilful hand, Canst form the bow, and javelin of our land j There we might freely roam, in search of food, Up the steep crag or through the friendly wood ; There we might find — Jumba. Alas ! thou dost not know The king of all those mountains is our foe ; His subjects numerous, and their chief employ To hunt our race when they from slavery fly. Lured by the hope of gain, such arts are tried, No rocks can cover, nor no forests hide $ Against us even chattering birds combine, And aid those hunters in their cursed design : For oft through them (A) the fugitives are caught, And, strongly pinion'd, to their tyrants brought. O'er vale, or mountain, thus, where'er we go, The suffering negro surely finds a foe. Adoma. Ah ! Jumba, worse, much worse our wretched state, Thus vex'd, thus harass'd, than that fish's (i) fate, 152 POEMS. Which frequent we beheld when wafted o'er The great rough water from our native shore : He, as the tyrants of the deep pursued, Would quit the waves their swiftness to elude, And skim in air : when, lo ! some bird of prey Bends his strong wing and bears the wretch away ! No refuge, then, but death — Jumba. What ! tamely die ! No : vengeance first shall fall on tyranny ! We'll view these white men gasping in their gore •, Then let me perish — Jumba asks no more. Adoma. Oh ! peace, — think where thou art -, thy voice is high Quick drop the daugerous theme 5 my shed is nigh, There my poor Yaro will our rice prepare t I pray thee come. Jumba. Away, and take thy fare. For me, I cannot eat ; haste to thy shed : Farewell ! be cautious 5 think on what I've said. POEMS. 153 ECLOGUE THE THIRD. Time — Noon. Now downward darts the fierce meridian ray, And nature pants amidst the blaze of day, Though pitying ocean, to her sufferings kind, Fans her warm bosom with an eastern wind : Now the huge mountains charm the roving eye, Their verdant summits towering to the sky 5 The cultured hill, the vale, the spreading plain, The distant sea- worn beach, the ruffled main, The anchoring bark o'erspread with awnings white, All now appear in robes of dazzling light : The feather'd race their gaudy plumes display, And sport and flutter 'midst the glowing day 3 The long-bill'd humming tribes now hover round, And shew their tints where blossoms most abound - 7 With eyes intent on earth, well poised in air, Voracious vultures seek their fated fare ; 154 POEMS. Where curls the wave, the pelican on high, With beak enormous and with piercing eye, If chance he sees a watery tenant rise, Now headlong drops and bears away his prize : Now variegated flies their pinions spread, And speckled lizards start at every tread : Now oxen to the shore, in ponderous wains, Drag the rich produce of the juicy canes : Now wearied negroes to their sheds repair, Or spreading tree, to take their scanty fare ; The hour expired, the shell (k) is heard to blow, And the sad tribe resume their daily woe : 'Twas now, beneath a tamarind's cool retreat, Two sable friends thus mourn'd their wretched fate. Congo. Oh, Quamina ! how roll'd the suns away, When thus upon our native soil we lay ; When we reposed beneath the friendly shade And quaff'd our palmy wine, and round survey'*! Our naked offspring sporting free as air, Our numerous wives the cheering feast prepare ; Saw plenty smile around our cane-built sheds, POEMS. 155 Saw yams shoot up, and cocoas lift their heads ; But now, ah ! sad reverse ! our groans arise, Forlorn and hopeless, far from all we prize ; Timid we tremble at our tyrant's frown, And one vast load of misery bends us down. Quamina. Yes, those were times which we in vain may mourn ; Times which, my Congo, never will return :, Times, ere the scourge's hated sound was known, Or hunger, toil, and stripes, had caused a groan ; Times, when with arrows arm'd, and trusty bow, We oft repell'd each rude invading foe j Times, when we chaced the fierce-eyed beasts of prey, Through tangled woods which scarcely knew the day, When oft we saw, in spite of all his care, The bulky elephant within our snare. Congo. Twelve moons have pass'd, for still I've mark'd them down, Since the fell trading race attack'd our town ; Since we were seized by that inhuman band, Forced from our wives, our friends, our native land. 156 POEMS. Twelve long, long moons they've been, and since that day, Oft have we groan'd beneath a cruel sway $ Oft has the taper'd scourge, where knots and wire Are both combined to raise the torture higher, Brought bloody pieces from each quivering part, While tyrant whites have sworn 'twas dexterous art. Quamina. Sharks seize them all ! their love of torture grows, And the whole island echoes with our woes : Didst thou know Jumba ? Some close listening ear Heard him last eve denounce, in terms severe, Deep vengeance on these whites. In vain he fled : This morn I saw him number'd with the dead ! Congo. A fate so sudden ! — and yet why complain ? The white man's pleasure is the negro's pain. Quamina. Didst thou e'er see, when hither first we came, An antient slave, Angola was his name ? Whose vigorous years upon these hills were spent, In galling servitude and discontent ; POEMS. 157 He late, too weak to bear the weighty toil Which all endure who till this hated soil, Was sent, as one grown useless on the estate, Far to the town to watch his master's gate, Or to the house each morn the fuel bring, Or bear cool water from the distant spring j With many a toil, with many a labour more, Although his aged head was silver'd o'er j Although his body like a bow was bent, And old, and weak, he totter 'd as he went. Congo. I knew him not. Quamina. Often, each labour sped, Has he with aching limbs attain'd his shed, Attain'd the spot, dejected and forlorn, Where he might rest his aged head till morn, Where, wearied out, he op'd the friendly door, And, entering, prostrate sunk upon the floor ; Feeble and faint some moons he toil'd away, (For trifles toil become as men decay) When late beneath the driver's lash he fell, 158 POEMS. And, scourged and tortured, bade the world farewell. Congo. But why the scourge ? Wherefore such needless rage ? Is there no pity, then, for helpless age ? Quamina. 'Twas part of his employ, with empty pail, To crawl for water to a neighbouring vale j And as he homeward bore the liquid load, With trembling steps along the rugged road, His withered limbs denied their wonted aid, The broken vessel his mishap betray'd : This his offence — for this thrown on the ground, His feeble limbs outstretch'd and strongly bound, His body bare, each nerve convulsed with pain, I saw, and pitied him, — but, ah ! in vain : Quick fell the lash — his hoary head laid low, His eyes confess'd unutterable woe ; He sued for mercy : then the tears apace Stole down the furrows of his aged face 5 His direful groans (for such they were indeed) Mix'd with his words whene'er he strove to plead, POEMS. 159 And form'd such moving eloquence, that none But flinty-hearted Christians could go on. At length released, they bore him to his shed, Much he complain'd, and the next morn was dead. Congo. And was this all ? — was this the atrocious deed Which doom'd this helpless sufferer to bleed ? May every curse attend this pallid race, Of earth the bane, of manhood the disgrace 5 May their dread Judge, who they pretend to say Rules the vast world with undivided sway, May he (if such he hath) display his power, Poison their days, appal their midnight hour, Bid them to fear his wrathful stern control, Pour his whole cup of trembling on their soul, Till they, repentant, these foul deeds forego, (/) And feel their hearts distress'd for others woe ! 161 NOTES. (a) His mother and sister have heard him say, that he found he studied best towards the full of the moon, and that he would often sit up all night and write by moonlight. (b) Mrs. Angel, the person with whom Chatterton lodged at the time he put an end to his existence, knowing that he had not eaten any thing for two or three days, asked him, on the fatal twenty-fourth of August, to take some dinner with her, but Chatterton was offended at her invitation, (which seemed to insinuate that he was in want) and told her he was not hungry. (c) The late Dr. Fry, head of St. John's College, Oxford, went to Bristol on purpose to inquire into the particulars of Rowley's Poems, and to patronize Chatterton, should he prove the author, or deserve encouragement ; but, alas ! he was too late ! all he could learn of this astonishing boy was, that within a few days he had poisoned himself in London ! (d) Chatterton, in his ballad of Charitie, calls the grave the Church Glebe House. — He was interred in the burial ground of Shoe-lane Workhouse. (e) Myriads of these reptiles nightly prowl through the woods in search of prey ; and at the approach of morn retire to their 162 NOTES. lurking places. Their out-cry is remarkably shrill ; but, when, softened by distance, to some ears is not disagreeable. (/) The wind blows gently from the land, in Jamaica, towards the sea in every direction, throughout the evening and night, and continues to blow in the same manner until about the hour of nine in the morning. After that time the heat would soon become intolerable, were it not tempered by a brisk refreshing gale from the sea, which almost instantly succeeds the land breeze. It is first seen to approach the shore in a fine, small, black curl, agi- tating the water ; whilst that part of the sea, at which it hath not yet arrived, is calm and smooth. In the space of half an hour after it has reached the shore, it blows with some briskness, increases in strength until noon, and dies away by degrees about five in the afternoon ; and it returns not until the following morning. This sea-breeze checks the fierce rays of the sun, cheers the panting inhabitants, and renders this, and the neighbouring islands, a sup- portable residence for Europeans. (g) A punishment not uncommon in the West Indies. Some of the miserable sufferers have been known to exist a week in this most dreadful situation. (See a most affecting account of one instance of this kind in the Rev. Mr. Ramsay's Treatise.) (h) Certain birds, commonly called in Jamaica blackbirds, fre- quent the inmost recesses of the woods, and at the sight of a human being they begin a loud and continued clamour, which is heard at a considerable distance. Their noise serves as a guide to the mountain-hunters, who immediately penetrate into that part of the wood, and seize the fugitives. NOTES. 163 (0 The flying-fish has two long fins, which in some degree perform the office of wings. It is about the size of a herring, and of the same shape. When this fish is pursued, in his native ele- ment, by the dolphin, he springs out of the water, and skims above the surface to a considerable distance. Yet even here he is not safe. The albitrosses, sea-gulls, and other aquatic birds, are frequently seen to fall upon and seize him in his flight. Should he even escape these (which indeed he frequently does) , as soon as his wings, or rather fins, become dry, he drops, and is instantly swallowed by his watery foe ; who, during this aerial excursion, eyes him askance, keeping exactly under him ; and, while thus pursuing, changes colour in so extraordinary a manner, as to form one of the most beautiful objects in nature. The bonetta, or bonita, is another enemy to this fish. It is a species of the tunny, or tracluras ; somewhat like a cod-fish, but much larger, and more beautiful. (k) A large conch shell is used in some plantations to summon the slaves to their labour. On others the call is made by a bell. (/) Some few plantations on this island might be enumerated, where, by kind and judicious treatment, the Africans have so far multiplied, as to render the purchase of new negroes (as they are termed) altogether unnecessary. Might not this become general ? The same causes, if suffered to operate fully as they ought, would universally produce the same effects. Setting aside every motive of humanity, sound policy naturally dictates such proceedings as these : and a few, and those not expensive, encouragements held forth to this dejected race, would produce the desired effect ; such 164 NOTES. as the allowance of more ease, and better food, to the negroes ; and a grant of particular privileges, nay even of freedom, to those mothers who have brought up a certain number of children. And the expense of such humane provisions, as well as the temporary abatement (if any should happen) in the exertions of any given number of slaves, would soon be amply repaid, even to the largest plantation, by the savings of the money usually expended in the an- nual purchase of fresh slaves, and by the great, and acknowledged, superiority of home-born negroes to those imported from Africa. EXPOSTULATORY LETTER TO GEORGE WASHINGTON, OF MOUNT VERNON, IN VIRGINIA, ON HIS CONTINUING TO BE A PROPRIETOR OF SLAVES. Oh ! reflect that your rights are the rights of mankind, That to all they were bounteously given ; And that he who in chains would his fellow-man bind, Uplifts his proud arm against heaven. 1797. In July last the following letter was transmitted to the person to whom it is addressed, and a few weeks ago it was returned un- der cover, without a syllable in reply. As children who are cram- med with confectionary have no relish for plain and wholesome food, so men in power, who are seldom addressed but in the sweet tones of adulation, are apt to be disgusted with the plain and sa- lutary language of truth. To offend was not the intention of the writer ; yet the President has evidently been irritated ; this, how- ever, is not a bad symptom, for irritation, causelessly excited, will frequently subside into shame ; and to use the language of the moralist, " Where there is yet shame, there may in time be virtue." Liverpool, February 20, 1797. 169 EXPOSTULATORY LETTER, &c. IT will generally be admitted, sir, and perhaps with justice, that the great family of mankind were never more benefited by the military abilities of any indivi- dual, than by those which you displayed during the memorable American contest. Your country was in- jured -, your services were called for ; you immediately arose, and after performing the most conspicuous part in that blood-stained tragedy, you again became a pri- vate citizen, and un ambitiously retired to your farm. There was more of true greatness in this procedure than the modern world at least had ever beheld ; and while public virtue is venerated by your countrymen, a conduct so exalted will not be forgotten. The effects which your revolution will have upon the world are in- calculable. By the flame which you have kindled, every oppressed nation will be enabled to perceive its fetters ; and when man once knows that he is enslaved, the bu- siness of emancipation is half performed. France has already burst her shackles ; neighbouring nations will in time prepare, and another half century may behold Y 170 the present besotted Europe without a peer, without a hierarchy, and without a despot. If men were enlight- ened, revolutions would be bloodless j but how are men to be enlightened, when it is the interest of go- vernors to keep the governed in ignorance? ff To enlighten men," says your old correspondent, Arthur Young, " is to make them bad subjects." Hurricanes spread devastation ; yet hurricanes are not only tran- sient, but give salubrity to the torrid regions, and are quickly followed by azure skies and calm sun-shine. Revolutions, too, for a time, may produce turbulence j yet revolutions clear the political atmosphere, and con- tribute greatly to the comfort and happiness of the human race. What you yourself have lived to witness in the United States is sufficient to elucidate my posi- tion. In your rides along the banks of your favourite Potomac, in your frequent excursions through your own extensive grounds, how gratifying must be your sensations on beholding the animated scenery around you 5 and how pleasurable must be your feelings on reflecting that your country is now an asylum for man- kind ; that her commerce, her agriculture, and her population, are greater than at any former period ; and that this prosperity is the natural result of those rights which you defended against an abandoned cabinet, 171 with all that ability which men who unsheath the sword in the cause of human nature will, I trust, ever dis- play ! Where liberty is, there man walks erect and puts forth all his powers ; while slavery, like a tor- pedo, benumbs the finest energies of the soul. But it is not to the Commander-in-chief of the Ame- rican forces, nor to the President of the United States, that I have aught to address ; my business is with George Washington, of Mount Vernon, in Virginia, a man who, notwithstanding his hatred of oppression, and his ardent love of liberty, holds at this moment hundreds of his fellow-beings in a state of abject bond- age. — Yes ! you, who conquered under the banners of freedom ; — you, who are now the first magistrate of a free people, are (strange to relate) a slave-holder. That a Liverpool merchant should endeavour to enrich himself by such a business is not a matter of surprise j but that you, an enlightened character, strongly en- amoured of your own freedom — you, who, if the British forces had succeeded in the eastern states, would have retired with a few congenial spirits to the rude fast- nesses of the western wilderness, there to have enjoyed that blessing, without which a paradise would be dis- gusting, and with which the most savage region is not 172 without its charms j that you, I say, should continue to be a slave-holder, a proprietor of human flesh and blood, creates in many of your British friends both astonishment and regret. You are a republican, an advocate for the dissemination of knowledge, and for universal justice, — where then are the arguments by which this shameless dereliction of principle can be supported ? Your friend Jefferson* has endeavoured * Besides those of colour, figure, and hair, there are other phy- sical distinctions proving a difference of race. They have less hair on the face and body. They secrete less by the kidnies, and more by the glands of the skin, which gives them a very strong and disagreeable odour. This great degree of transpiration ren- ders them more tolerant of heat, and less so of cold, than the whites. Perhaps too a difference of structure in the pulmonary apparatus, which a late ingenious experimentalist* has discovered to be the principal regulator of animal heat, may have disabled them from extricating, in the act of inspiration, so much of that fluid from the outer air, or obliged them, in expiration, to part with more of it. They seem to require less sleep. A black, after hard labour through the day, will be induced by the slightest amusements to sit up till midnight, or later, though knowing be must be out by the first dawn of the morning. They are at least as brave, and more adventuresome. But this perhaps may pro- ceed fi'om a want of forethought, which prevents their seeing a danger till it be present. When present, they do not go through it with more coolness and steadiness than the whites. They are more ardent after their females ; but love seems with them to be more an eager desire than a tender delicate mixture of sentiment and sensation. Their griefs are transient. Those numberless * Crawford. 173 to shew that 4he negroes are an inferior order of beings ; but surely you will not have recourse to such a subter- fuge. Your slaves, it may be urged, are well treated* That I deny — man never can be well treated who is der prived of his rights. They are well clothed, well fed, well lodged, &c. Feed me with ambrosia, and wash it down with nectar, yet, what are these if liberty be wanting ? You took arms in defence of the rights of man. — Your negroes are men. — Where, then, are the rights of your negroes } They have been inured, to slavery, and are not fit for freedom. Thus it was said of the French ; but where is the man of unbiased common sense who will assert that the French repub- licans of the present day are not fit for freedom ? , It has been said, too, by your apologists, that your feel-? afflictions, which render it doubtful whether heaven has given life to us in mercy or in wrath, are less felt and sooner forgotten with them. In general, their existence appears to participate more of sensation than reflection. To this must be ascribed their disposi- tion to sleep when abstracted from their diversions, and unem- ployed in labour. An animal whose body is at rest, and who doe6 not reflect, must be disposed to sleep of course. Comparing them by their faculties of memory, reason, and imagination, it appears to me, that in memory they are equal to the whites ; in reason much inferior, as I think one can scarcely be found capable of tracing and comprehending the investigations of Euclid ; and that in imagination they are dull, tasteless, and anomalous. — See Jetfer- son's Notes on Virginia, page 230. • ' ■ • <• ■• ■■ 174 ings are inimical to slavery, and that you are induced to acquiesce in it at present merely from motives of policy. The only true policy is justice ; and he who regards the consequences of an act, rather than the jus- tice of it, gives no very exalted proof of the greatness of his character. But if your feelings be actually re- pugnant to slavery, then are you more culpable than the callous-hearted planter, who laughs at what he calls the pitiful whining of the abolitionists, because he be- lieves slavery to be justifiable ; while you persevere in a system which your conscience tells you to be wrong. If we call the man obdurate who cannot perceive the atrociousness of slavery, what epithets does he de- serve, who, while he does perceive its atrociousness, continues to be a proprietor of slaves ? Nor is it likely that your own unfortunate negroes are the only sufferers by your adhering to this nefarious business. Consider the force of an example like your's ; — consider how many of the sable race may now be piniDg in bondage, merely, forsooth, because the President of the United States, who has the character of a wise and good man, does not see cause to discontinue the long-established practice! Of all the slave-holders under heaven, those of the United States appear to me the most reprehensible ; for man never is so truly 175 odious as when he inflicts upon others that which he himself abominates. When the cup of slavery was presented to your countrymen, they rejected it with disdain, and appealed to the world in justification of their conduct j yet such is the inconsistency of man, that thousands upon thousands of those very people, with yourself amongst the number, are now sedulously em- ployed in holding the self-same bitter draught to the lips of their sable brethren. From men who are strongly attached to their own rights, and who have suffered much in their defence, one might have expected a scrupulous attention to the rights of others j did not experience shew, that when we ourselves are oppressed, we perceive it with a lynx's eye ; but when we become the oppressors, no noon-tide bats are blinder. Pros- perity perhaps may make nations as well as individuals forget the distresses of other times 3 yet surely the citizens of America cannot so soon have forgotten the variety and extent of their own sufferings ! When your country lay bruised by the iron hand of despotism, and you were compelled to retreat through the Jerseys with a handful of half-naked followers 5 when the bay- onet of the mercenary glistened at your back, and li- berty seemed about to expire 5 when your farms were laid waste, your towns reduced to ashes, and your 176 plains and woods were strewed with the mangled bo- dies of your brave defenders ; when these events were taking place, every breast could feel, and every tongue could execrate the sanguinary proceedings of Britain ; yet, what the British were at that period you are in a great degree at this. You are boastful of your own rights — you are violators of the rights of others ; and you are stimulated, by an insatiable rapacity, to a cruel and relentless oppression. If the wrongs which you now inflict be not so severe as those which were inflicted upon you, it is not because you are less inhu- man than the British, but because the unhappy objects of your tyranny have not the power of resistance. In defending your own liberties you undoubtedly suffered much j yet if your negroes, emulating the spirited example of their masters, were to throw off the galling yoke, and, retiring peaceably to some uninhabited part of the western region, were to resolve on liberty or death, what would be the conduct of the southern planters -on such an occasion 1 Nay, what would be your conduct ? — You, who were " born in a land of