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Deem our nation brutes no longer,
Till some reason ye shall find
Worthier of regard, and stronger
Than the color of our kind.

Slaves of gold! whose sordid dealings
Tarnish all your boasted powers,
Prove that you have human feelings,

Ere you proudly question ours.

W. Couper.

CLXXXVI.

LOSS OF THE ROYAL George.

TOLL for the brave! the brave that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave, fast by their native shore!
Eight hundred of the brave, whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel, and laid her on her side.
A land-breeze shook the shrouds, and she was overset ;
Down went the Royal George, with all her crew complete!

Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought his work of glory done.
It was not in the battle; no tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak; she ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath, his fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down, with twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up, once dreaded by our foes,

And mingle with our cup the tear that England owes !

Her timbers yet are sound, and she may float again,

Full charged with England's thunder, and plow the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone, his victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred shall plow the waves no more.

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Where rumor of oppression and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or successful war,

Might never reach me more.

My ear is pained,

My soul is sick, with every day's report

Of wrong and outrage, with which earth is filled. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart;

It does not feel for man: the natural bond

Of brotherhood is severed as the flax
That falls asunder at the touch of fire.

He finds his fellow guilty of a skin

Not colored like his own; and having power
To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause,
Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.
Lands intersected by a narrow frith
Abhor each other. Mountains interposed
Make enemies of nations, who had else
Like kindred drops been mingled into one.
Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys;
And worse than all, and most to be deplored,
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot,
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat
With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart,
Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast.
Then what is man? And what man, seeing this,
And having human feelings, does not blush,
And hang his head, to think himself a man?
I would not have a slave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews, bought and sold, has ever earned.
No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's
Just estimation prized above all price,

I had much rather be myself the slave,
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.
We have no slaves at home-then why abroad?
And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave
That parts us, are emancipate and loosed.

Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs

Receive our air, that moment they are free;
They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
That 's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it, then,
And let it circulate through every vein

Of all your empire; that, where Britain's power
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. W. Couper

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I loathe ye in my bosom,

I scorn ye with my eye,

And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath,
And fight ye till I die!

I ne'er will ask ye quarter,

And I ne'er will be your slave;
But I'll swim the sea of slaughter,

Till I sink beneath the wave!

G. W. Patten

XIX.

THE THREE BEATS.

ROLL-roll!-How gladly swell the distant notes

From where, on high, yon starry pennon floats!
Roll-roll!-On, gorgeously they come,

With plumes low-stooping, on their winding way,
With lances gleaming in the sun's bright ray:
"What do ye here, my merry comrades,

say?"

"We beat the gathering drum; "Tis this which gives to mirth a lighter tone, To the young soldier's cheek a deeper glow, When stretched upon his grassy couch, alone, It steals upon his ear, this martial call Prompts him to dreams of gorgeous war, with all Its pageantry and show!"

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"What is it that ye beat?"

"We sound the charge! On with the courser fleet!— Where 'mid the columns, red war's eagles fly,

We swear to do or die!

"Tis this which feeds the fires of Fame with breath, Which steels the soldier's heart to deeds of death; And when his hand,

Fatigued with slaughter, pauses o'er the slain, 'Tis this which prompts him madly once again To seize the bloody brand!"

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