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O man superior reason's light was giv'n;

Reason, the noblest gift of bounteous Heav'ng Unfailing beam, bright intellectual ray, Thou steady guide through error's devious way; Say, wert thou first by gracious Heav'n defign'd To stamp injustice on the human kind? Forbid it truth, forbid it ev'ry breast That heaves in pity for the wretch oppress’d: Yet reason, justice, mercy, plead in vain, Still the sad victim drags his galling chain ; Still bows submissive to the tyrant hand, That tore the fuff'rer from his native land; Yet, ere the arts of luxury began, They boasted liberty, the right of man; Serene, they saw each peaceful morning smile, Joy led their hours, and plenty bless’d their toil ; Their pleading fighs, their suppliant moving pray’r, Daughter of Virtue! Royal Charlotte, hear ! Sovereign, yet parent, of this happy isle, O’er whose gay plains fair plenty deigns to smile ; Where spotless peace extends her azure wing ; And liberty's enchanting blossoms spring ; Thine is compaffion's sympathetic figh, The melting tear that beams in pity's eye ; The heart like thine, that feels another's pain, Hears not distress'd misfortune plead in vain ; Be't thine to heal pale forrow's wounded breat, And lull cach raging paflion into rest ;


Let not the wretched slave in vain deplore
The long-lost joys he must behold no more ;
Then, while Britannia hails thy sacred name,
A deed like this shall swell the trump of fame ;
Virtues like thine shall wake the founding lyre,
Each bofom glow with emulative fire ;
And, swellid with themes like this, the poet's page
Remain admir'd through each fucceeding age.

When Superstition rais'd her threatning hand,
And scatter'd horror 'round the bleeding land,
On fad Britannia's ravag'd plains she stood,
Drench'd in one fatal stream of martyr'd blood;
O’er ev'ry scene, with fell delight, she flew,
And smild, exulting, at the dreadful view;
Religion's sacred truths, though once defign'd
To banish error from the darken'd mind,
Avail'd not here ; her pure

celestial light,
Lost in the gloom of superstition's night,
Drooping, beheld the fatal torrent roll
Refistless terrors o'er the doubtful soul;
Till bright Eliza came, whose matchless sway
Callid forth the dawn of fair religion's day ;
Cherish'd the genial influence as it rose,
Dispelld their errors and reliev'd their woes.
Shall Britain, then, who boasts th' unrivall'd deed,
Relentless, see the guiltless victim bleed?
Amid the horrors of tormenting pain
He seeks for mercy, but he seeks in vain ;
Affrighted Mercy quits the guilty land,
Where grim Oppreffion waves her tyrant hand;
Where, to the favage herd a harmless prey,
Sinks faint beneath the fervid beam of day ;


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Or, haply trembling in the midnight air,
Sunk in the deepest gloom of low despair ;
Or burning thirst and furious want, combin'd,
With wild distraction fire his glowing mind,
Till death “restores to him eternal rest,
And calms the tumults of his troubled breaft.

The British youth, torn from his much-lov'd home,
O'er foreign seas and foreign coasts to roam,
Amid the fury of the piercing blast,
The swelld wave circling round the shiver'd mast,
While bursting peals of thunder rend the skies,
And o’er the deck the foaming billows rise,
Awhile in terror views the lightning glare,
With streaming horror, through the midnight air;
The storm once past, he gains the friendly ray
Of hope, to guide him through the dang'rous way;
Smiling, she bids each future prospect rise,
Through fancy's vary'd mirror, to his eyes.
Not so the flave; oppress'd with secret care,
He finks the hapless victim of despair ;
Or, doom'd to torments that might even move
The steely heart, and melt it into love ;
Till worn with anguish, with’ring in his bloom,
He falls an early tenant of the tomb !
Shall Britain view, unmov'd, fad Afric's shore
Delug'd so oft in streams of purple gore !
Britain, where science, peace, and plenty, smile,
Virtue's bright seat and freedomn’s favour'd ille!
Rich are her plains and fruitful is her clime,
The scourge of tyrants, and the boast of time;
Of ev'ry virtue, ev'ry worth, poffefs’d,
That fires the hero's or the patriot's breast :


There, nobly warm'd with animating fire,
Our Shakespeare struck his soul-commanding lyre ;
There scenes of bliss immortal Milton sung,
And notes harmonious issued from his tongue :
And bards like these shall boast in ev'ry age,
While native genius glows in Hayley's page ;
While genius bids, to our enchanted eyes,
In Swift's own strains, a second Pope arise.
When truth, perplex'd in error's thorny maze,
Threw o'er the world obfcur'd and darken'd rays,
Then Newton rose, unveil'd the beauteous maid:
He spoke, and nature stood at once display'd.
These were the souls that Britain once poffess'd,
When genuine virtue fir'd the patriot's breast;
And still shall she protect fair freedom's cause,
And vindicate her violated laws;

peace and freedom to a wretched land, And scatter blessings with a lib'ral hand.

In Britain's paradise, by freedom made,
The tree of commerce spreads its ample shade;
Unsparing plenty bends the lofty brow,
And wealth bright glitters on each golden bough;
On some the richest gems of India shone,
And added luftre to the British throne;
Such as in gentle radiance might outvie
The melting lustre of the sparkling eye ;
Such as in gay variety might grace
The native beauties of the lovely face :
On some the bud of health, in rofy bloom,
Call'd languid sickness from an early tomb ;
Or bade contented labour calmly smile
O'er the rich prospect of his native foil.


One ample branch, fuperior to the rest,
Rose to the view, in splendid radiance dress’d ;
On ev'ry leaf the tempting manna hung,
In golden dyes each beauteous blossom sprung
The flow'rs of brightest hue oppression nam'd,
Yet from the tree the rank of commerce claimn'd.
Led by the fair deceit beneath its shade,
With eager eye the Naves of av'rice stray'd ;
This fatal fruit was loveliest to the view,
That on the spreading tree of commerce grew;
They grafp'd the baneful load with fatal hafte,
Destructive poison to th'enchanted taste ;
Loft in the pleasing dream, awhile the foul,
Where av’rice reign'd fecure from all controul,
Slept calm, till conscience, with unerring dart,
Struck deep conviction through the guilty heart ;
And bade reflection wake the feeling mind,
That turn’d to ev'ry scene it left behind:
There might they see the tortur’d wretch implore

vengeance on Britannia's shore;
In filent grief, amid distraction wild,
The wretched parent mourn her long-lost child':
These scenes appear when death, in terror dress'd,
Bids sharp repentance wound the shuddring breast;
When o'er your heads th’avenging thunders roll,
And quick destruction seems to snatch the soul;
When fast around the dreadful lightnings fall,
And guilt shall hear th' incens'd Almighty's call;
Then will his wrath destroy the life he gave,
And justice snatch the foul that mercy could not save.
Britain, be thine the glorious talk to heal
The bleeding wounds thy wretched fons shall feel;


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