The New York Packet

The subject of the following address is a theme which the benevolent will deem popular, but which the interested may not admire. The subjects of America, however, who have so strenuously contended for LIBERTY, and who have declared it to be the natural right of MAN, will doubtless defend the principles of the author, and thereby support the character of consistency.

ADDRESS to the HEART,

On the Subject of AFRICAN SLAVERY.

WAKE! ye whose hearts are attuned to sympathy. ! ye whose minds have tasted of the sweet cup of benevolence, and who profess humbly to imitate the glorious Saviour of the world ! deign for a moment to think, and despise not the meanest of your brethren, for the high and the low, are of the same blood-the first and the last, the same in the eye of Heaven ! be thankful that the Father of mercies has blessed you with abundance, that ye may diffuse happiness around you ; and pride yourselves not in riches, for to the God of the rich and the poor, the whole earth belongs-nor in knowledge, for we are all born alike---in ignorance.

Who can supplicate the God of the universe, and reject the supplications of his distressed creatures, over whom he has appointed them as stewards ?— Who can pray for mercy, rendering none--expect gratitude, forgetting to be grateful ?Remember who created you, and of what-of dust !-Remember the condescension of Christ, when he loved you-his sufferance for your redemption, and at what price he bought it-the price of his blood !- Remember the great command he gave to his followers---to love their neighbours as themselves, and to bestow benefits as they would receive them !

Forget yourselves not for a moment in the days of your prosperity, for the earth itself is in continual motion !

The miseries of many are full ; the cries of oppressed men rise from the dust ! for the iron hand of tyranny has long been heavy.- Ye who repose under the delightful shades of peace-ye whose rights and property fear no invasion-ye whose nights of soft slumber are undisturbed, whose days are spent in conjugal love, and whose children are ripening in age under the kind indulgencies of parental affection, forget for a moment the voluptuous coach, the luxurious table, the splendid equipage, the sumptuous robe, the enchanting scenes and intoxicating pleasures that surround you, and consider that many of your poor brethren are weary with the heavy labour that procures them !--you are enjoying the fruits of the earth, and they considered only as beasts of burthen. They have children as well as yourselves, and are subject to the same feelings.

—The poor African is to-day reclining in the arms of balmy rest, under the tree which was planted by his father for a shade-His little infants are playing on his neck, as he rests on his couch of reeds-He smiles at their gambols, and the fathers of the valley arrive, to amuse with the tales of their former years, the men and maids who are gathering to the feast. :-The rice ·is ready, the fruits are 'collected, and the * palm flows for the welcome guests.= The warbling voice is loud in the.i festal grove--the 'song rises, and the dance begins,-their festive joys continue, and iwhilst innocence and virtue reign, the open eye of Heaven approvesiiA cloud rises in the west,-the journey ot the whirlwind is not more rapid than its progress.i=-The flames of the.sur- rounding villages ascend, and the shrieks of ihe dy- ing victims are now the: only'mnufic of the groves!.

i-Can the bleating of the lamb raise the pity. of the wolf ?--No-nor the cry of the. babe stay the hand of the barbarous 'Rufhiin /-trThe afflicted mother is torn from her child, the protecting hand of the father is laid low in the dust.The brother cannot mingle tear with brother-nor take a part- ing look, for they are,forever dividedthe sister can enjov no longer the love of her parents, nor the friendship of her companions, of the morning, for one black night has separated thern all. The cries of women render more piercing the hideous yells of midnight, the groans of men are heard with the clanking of chains !--Where is now the song of mirth ?"Where is now the soft. tale of love ? · The. valley of Morni is : becone the vallev of death ! …The sacred groves are become the shades of misery !-i The march of groans is begun.- Weeks pas, where the desert brook is dry-the hot sands burn, and the breeze forgets to blow.- The tender youths sink-the arms of death catch them !-i The dungeons of the ship are open. the heavy chains are in tune ; they clink to the misery of man.-The fiend of the earth is awake --he travels the deck in darkness !--The roll- ing sea hurries the heaving hearts.-—-The sighing souls escape--Happy souls ! for you died the Sa- viour of the world ! the groans of a hundred men. the sighs of a hundred women, the cries of a hun- dred youths are one ? their tears mingle with the wave that dashes over.-A dead silence prevails, and the bodies are thrown to the watchful sharks, whose ravenous jhws are glutted witk the fleh of men !--The markets in the west are full of slaves— the fathers of oppreion are there---their flinty hearts regard them as beafts of burthen.—-The doom of the children of Afriea is fixed, their lot is a dreadful bondage! O Chriftianity !--Thou whose mild Teacher taught self-denial to the world, and died to deliver and to bles mankind, can thy professors make captive and detroy their brethren ? —The name of Chriftian has been abhorred by Ne- groes and Indians ! Chrit has een his name reject- ed-the caue is before him, for his eye is upon all flefh!

Come thou of peaceful oul, to my garden in the land of lavery-it is a retreat well uited to a con- templative mind. The high mountains that ur- round, preerve it from the torm, and the hanging wood is beautifully oftened by their shades.---See the bower to which I invite my friends.---This was planted by my faithful old man who keeps watch in my garden.—---The little murmuring brook that wanders along the valley feldom forgets to run, and dafhing down the rock, dazzles in the un-beam. Upon that rock fits the night-hawk Liflen ! for the turtle doves are cooing, and the mild notes of the woodland thrufh are ftill heard !, -The un tinges the clouds ; and how rich are the warm tints of the monntains !-- The evening tar already twinkles, and the able wing of night is preading from the eat.-See that poor flave riing the hill under a heavy load.---He whitles, for the un is fetting and his time of ret is near-" he whitles, therefore he is happy.".-- No ; he often walks penfively on the hill, and he ometimes rets his burthen upon that old stump : -Hark !- un !---thou whose cheerful beams have often enlivened my oul, thou art now finking behind the world.----When thou riet thou wilt behold my country ! thou wilt ee mv wife and children !-Do they want bread ? -…--Perhaps they lament the los of Morni ! he is far away, and to them, and to him- felf, Morni is dead !--where doft thou live, O un ! and where is thy bed ? When thou throw- et upon my country thy firt look in the morning, the young men will rife with joy to tring their bows ; but, I am here !-----When my wife rifes the la- bour of the day will be heavy, for Morni is here ; and who fhall help my babes, for their hands are sill feeble.---The lion ranges free in the deart, and in his strength, the young lions rejoice ; but where is the arm of Morni? -his children weep with- out help ! They refue now to tafte the wine of his palms. They look at his cup, and the partner of his happy days mourns, for Morni is dead !---He wanders in the mountain far from her, he drinks at the little pring, but thou, O un ! drinket the ret -carry it with the morning to the grounds of my children, and pare them from the mifery of Morni ! when they retire to ret, let their flumbers be weet, and let them not dream of Morni, for Morni fhall behold them no more ! when I rife in the morning to the labor of the day, awake them not; tis too early. Thou art finking fat, O un ! and the dead fong of night is heard now in the houfe of the wife of Morni ; he is here in the dull mountain, and mut go to his folitary hut. Who will receive him there ---where is his wife ?---where are his children ?---his wife gives him no welcome, his in- fants tell him not their pleaing tales.--- The foul of ilence dwells in his hut !---his faithful dog watches at his door---poor dog !---thou lovet me and thy mater loves thee, but where is now his pleaure ? ---he shall ee his family no more !---farewell un! ---farewell ftars ! be ye happy, and reign forever! ---bles my mater ! he is good, but he feels not the weight of the burthen of Morni !---again he whiftles, and retires behind the hill.

Paue a while, ye of tender minds, and let the miferies of others be your own.---Look upon your tender offspring, remark ye not the innocence of your babes ? ee ye not the pleafing miles of your beautiful daughters ? the ripening knowledge of your vigorous ons ? They reward in the evening the toils of the day---your labours are forgotten; they are happy; and the hearts of their parenits u- nite in rapturous embraces, giving praie to the God of mercy,---happy days !---happy years!---roll on! no forget them, the winter of your joys comes ! be- hold the bloody flag of a pirate, your tender mi- ling babes are torn from you, and ye ee them till miling in heavenly innocence on their barbarous captors! the hair of your beauteous virgins is whirl'd in the deart blaft, and their piercing cries difregarded by their cruel poilers !--the hands of your ons are fetter'd ; their heavy hearts heave in filence, and their knees totter under the weighty poils of their own fathers !--the big tear he- dews the palid cheek of the mother of miery ; but the father's is dry, and his eye fixed in horror ! The morn arrives,and the un shines as yeterday, the ky as erene as before, the flowers mell as weet as ever, the birds fing with equal melody, the river runs as moothly, the tree appears as ftately, and its boughs play with the zephyr, the ditant grove looks as purple, and the hill in the horizon has the ame blue tint, but, the mind of man is in a dark cloud, the gloomy night till hangs over his oul! the dlay, though alive, is dead to man, and its beauties are now no more!

* Palm tree, from which runs their vine.

. Sacred grove of their gods: