The Patowmac Guardian, And Berkeley Advertiser

SEAT OF THE MUSES.

Although the new work (called Humanity) by the Author of Sympathy, comprehends a variety of objects interesting to Humanity, it certainly makes a particular object of the fate of the hapless Africans.-- The following is selected from many instances :

LYET, Who the Negroes' sufferings can relate
Or warn the varied horrors of their fate:
Where, blushing Truth! shall we their griefs begin
Or how commence the catalogue of Sin?
Demons of torture? ye who mock at woe.
And smile to see the crimson blood-track flow
In horrid triumph rise from central Hell
Th'inventive pangs of Christian growth to tell
Oh aid the shuddering Muse to paint the grief
Which calls on death for pity and relief:
On! powers of Mercy loose that massy yoke
Oh! hold that Arm, for murder's in the Stroke!
Behold that axe the quivering limb assails.
Behold that body weltering in its wails!
Ah! hear that Bludgeon fall, that lash resound
Ah! see those wretches writhing on the ground!
See yonder mangled mass of Atoms lie.
Behold that Christian's hands the flames apply,
At the bare feet is laid the sulphurous train
Climbs to the heart and burns into the brain.
Survey the triple horrors of their state,
Doom'd in each change to be the sport of fate
Torn from their native and at first they come
And then are thrown into the floating tomb
In wat'ry dens' like coupled beasts they lie
And beg the mournful privilege--to die,
Than Man, more kind, Death often brings relief
Releases one, while--one survives to grief
The diving wretch his dead associate sees
The body clasps and drinks the putrid breeze
Chain'd to the noxious corpse till rudely thrown,
In the vex'd sea, then left a slave alone.
Ah! wretch forlorn! thy lot the most severe,
Assassination would be mercy here!
Methinks I hear the cry, "Ah! give me death,
"Give the last blow, and stop this hated breath."
So To arm this hand were holy innocence,
'I call on suicide as self-defence.
Oh! for a sword to waft me to the shore,
Where never Christian White may torture more
Cure, cure me not with Being, instant throw
This loathsome body to the waves below!"
His prayer deny'd; condemn'd midst slaves to groan
The cruel merchant marks him for his own,
The scar by Christian cruelty impress'd
Smokes on his arm, or blackens, on his breast
The wattled ozier forms his rugged bed
And daily anguish earns his daily bread
Short food, and shorter rest, and endless toil,
Above the scourge, below the burning soil.