SONNET

ADDRESSED TO.

HENRY COWPER, Esa.

On his emphatical and interesting delivery of the Defence of WARREN HASTINGS, Efq. in the House of Lords.

COWPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard, Legends prolix delivers in the ears

(Attentive when thou read'ft) of England's Peers, Let verfe at length yield thee thy juft reward. Thou waft not heard with drowsy difregard, Expending late on all that length of plea Thy gen'rous pow'rs, but filence honour'd thee Mute as e'er gaz'd on Orator or Bard.

Thou art not voice alone, but haft befide

Both heart and head; and could'ft with mufic sweet Of attic phrase and senatorial tone,

Like thy renown'd Forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, prais'd not for utt'rance meet Of others' speech, but magic of thy own.

THE MORNING DREAM.

"TWAS in the glad feafon of spring,
Afleep at the dawn of the day,

I dream'd what I cannot but fing,
So pleasant it seem'd as I lay.
I dream'd that on ocean afloat,

Far hence to the weftward I fail'd,
While the billows high-lifted the boat,
And the fresh-blowing breeze never fail'd.

In the fteerage a woman I saw,

Such at leaft was the form that she wore,
Whofe beauty imprefs'd me with awe,
Ne'er taught me by woman before.
She fat, and a fhield at her fide

Shed light like a fun on the waves,
And smiling divinely, the cry'd—
I go to make Freemen of Slaves.—

Then raifing her voice to a strain
The sweetest that ear ever heard,

She fung of the flave's broken chain
Wherever her glory appear'd.

Some clouds which had over us hung
Fled, chas'd by her melody clear,
And methought while the Liberty sung,
"Twas Liberty only to hear.

Thus fwiftly dividing the flood

To a flave-cultur'd ifland we came, Where a Demon, her enemy, stoodOppreffion his terrible name.

In his hand, as the fign of his sway, A fcourge hung with lafhes he bore, And flood looking out for his prey

From Africa's forrowful fhore.

But foon as approaching the land
That goddefs-like woman he view'd,
The fcourge he let fall from his hand,
With blood of his fubjects imbrued.
I faw him both ficken and die,

And the moment the monfter expir'd Heard fhouts that afcended the sky

From thousands with rapture inspir'd.

Awaking, how could I but mufe

At what fuch a dream fhould betide?

But foon my ear caught the glad news
Which ferv'd my weak thought for a guide-
That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves

For the hatred the ever has shown
To the black-fceptred rulers of flaves,
Refolves to have none of her own.

VERSES

PRINTED AT THE BOTTOM OF THE

YEARLY BILL OF MORTALITY

OF THE TOWN OF NORTHAMPTON,

Dec. 21, 1787.

Pallida Mors æquo pulfat pede pauperum tabernas
Regumque turres.

Pale Death with equal foot ftrikes wide the door
Of royal halls and hovels of the poor.

WHILE thirteen moons faw smoothly run
The Nen's barge-laden wave,

All these, life's rambling journey done,
Have found their home-the grave.

Was man (frail always) made more frail
Than in foregoing years?

Did famine, or did plague prevail,
That so much death appears?

No; these were vigorous as their fires,
Nor plague nor famine came;
This annual tribute Death requires,
And never waves his claim.

Like crowded foreft-trees we ftand,
And fome are mark'd to fall;
The axe will fmite at God's command,
And foon fhall fmite us all.

Green as the bay-tree, ever green,
With its new foliage on,

The gay, the thoughtless have I feen;
I pafs'd-and they were gone.

Read, ye that run, the awful truth
With which I charge my page;
A worm is in the bud of youth,
And at the root of age.