Fills with fire his hollow eye,

And thrills his breast with extacy:

Sweet to his soul th' unlook'd for tidings prove, More sweet, than midnight-dreams, of liberty and love.

May the rude hurricane, no more,
Throned on crimson clouds arise!
Or, scattering death from shore to shore,
Blend ocean with the skies!
No longer shoot its feathery head,
The cane, by salt tears watered;
Stain'd by salt tears, no longer grow,
Gossipium's vegetable snow;

Nature is jubilant; and suns more bland
Play, with a milder beam, o'er Afric's injured land.

Day long deferr'd, yet long desired!
To break Oppression's massy chain
Thou com'st-in rainbow robes attired,
And Plenty in thy train.

The negro, taught himself to scan,
To think, and feel, kimself a man,
No more from labor shall recoil,

Or turn with niggard tilth the soil,

But taught, at length, a Christian's faith to prove, Shall own the Christian's GOD, to be, The GOD OF

LOVE.

Hail to that folk, of placid mein
Who worship God in silent awe;
Who tread in Faith's low path, serene,

And practise Gospel-law !

"Tis their best privilege of mind

To advocate for human kind;

'Twas they, who track'd th' unbeaten course, Since trod so well by WILBERFORCE;

Forth from their camps, th' enormous guilt they hurl'd,

Then held their lamps aloft, to animate the world.

Let, BENEZET! thy gentle shade

Now look, benignant from the sky:
This holy triumph, may pervade
The azure fields on high:
Who bids His servant-sun display
The light, and energy, of day,
'Tis HE, and only HE, can know

The victor-spirit's conscious glow;

He gave to burn th' unconquerable flame;
And bosoms yet unborn shall heave at CLARKSON'S

name.

Humanity, with suppliant air,

"Rise! rise my son!" to Clarkson cried;

He, roused Oppression from his lair,

Nor left him till he died.

He, slighting sleep, and slighting food, Sought but the luxury of good; He scorning pleasure, scorning pain, Would toil, and toil, and toil again; And all t arouse the monster from his den, And bid the beast deform, endure the moral ken.

May he who hail'd, in happier days
His king restored, on rustic reed ;*
Now hail, with more emphatic praise,
That king, A KIng indeed!
GREAT GEORGE! if any act of thine,
Can stamp thy memory, divine;

If aught can write a monarch's name,
Immortal on the scroll of Fame;

That word, which bad the Slave-trade," CEASE
TO BE!"

That word shall work the wreath, a glorious wreath, for THEE.

"Tis not enough, Ye, patriot breasts

Who hold the weal of Britain dear!

"Tis not enough, that law arrests
The merchant's rash career:

That freight abhorr'd, which Rapine gave,
Long, long opprest th' Atlantic wave;

Alluding to the preceding Ode.

And long the red-cross was display'd, To sanction Britain's bloody trade: Come! Mercy! come! thy radiant task begun, Let Afric now rejoice, by BRITISH CULTURE won.

It comes, at length, the lingering hour,
Foretold by bards, by seers profound;
Redeeming Love, Creative Pow'r,
On Niger's brink resound:

Gospel tidings, shall inspire

On Gambia's banks, a holy fire;

There, raptured Age, and ardent Youth, Shall hail the advent beams of TRUTH: Cease, bloody rites! thick darkness! roll away! He comes, MESSIAH comes, and brings TH' ETER

NAL DAY.

B.

On Conscience.

IN vain I seek the shades of night,
And wish to sin retired from sight,-
A witness dwells within my breast,
Who sees and will my crimes attest.
Conscience, the purest of the train,
Since all our powers received a stain,
Preserves a taste of Eden still,
Nor quite neglects her Master's will.
When sin is yet but half design'd,
How she restrains my forward mind;
And if the trespass I pursue,
With blushing 'tis, and trembling too.
When to my God I dare appeal
How much I long to know his will,
'Tis Conscience bids my comforts rise,
As when the morning gilds the skies.
But when my guilty passions sway,
And lead my faithless heart away,
Lord, how she wounds my rebel soul,
Till grace descends, and makes me whole.
She, when the Judge shall rend the sky,
Will bid me rise to joy on high;