Epistle To William Wilberforce, Esq.

ON THE REJECTION OF THE BILL FOR ABOLISHING THE SLAVE TRADE, 1791.

Cease, Wilberforce, to urge thy generous aim!
Thy Country knows the sin, and stands the shame!
The Preacher, Poet, Senator in vain
Has rattled in her sight the Negro's chain;
With his deep groans assailed her startled ear,
And rent the veil that hid his constant tear;
Forced her averted eyes his stripes to scan,
Beneath the bloody scourge laid bare the man,
Claimed Pity's tear, urged Conscience' strong controul,
And flashed conviction on her shrinking soul.
The Muse too, soon awaked, with ready tongue
At Mercy's shrine applausive pæans rung;
And Freedom's eager sons in vain foretold
A new Astrean reign, an age of gold:
She knows and she persists—Still Afric bleeds,
Unchecked, the human traffic still proceeds;
She stamps her infamy to future time,
And on her hardened forehead seals the crime.

In vain, to thy white standard gathering round,
Wit, Worth, and Parts and Eloquence are found:
In vain, to push to birth thy great design,
Contending chiefs, and hostile virtues join;
All, from conflicting ranks, of power possesst
To rouse, to melt, or to inform the breast.
Where seasoned tools of Avarice prevail,
A Nation's eloquence, combined, must fail:
Each flimsy sophistry by turns they try;
The plausive argument, the daring lie,
The artful gloss, that moral sense confounds,
The' acknowledged thirst of gain that honour wounds:
Bane of ingenuous minds!—the' unfeeling sneer,
Which sudden turns to stone the falling tear:
They search assiduous, with inverted skill,
For forms of wrong, and precedents of ill;
With impious mockery wrest the sacred page,
And glean up crimes from each remoter age:
Wrung Nature's tortures, shuddering, while you tell,
From scoffing fiends bursts forth the laugh of hell;
In Britain's senate, Misery's pangs give birth
To jests unseemly, and to horrid mirth—
Forbear!—thy virtues but provoke our doom,
And swell the' account of vengeance yet to come;
For, not unmarked in Heaven's impartial plan,
Shall man, proud worm, contemn his fellow-man!
And injured Afric, by herself redresst,
Darts her own serpents at her tyrant's breast.
Each vice, to minds depraved by bondage known,
With sure contagion fastens on his own;
In sickly languors melts his nerveless frame,
And blows to rage impetuous Passion's flame:
Fermenting swift, the fiery venom gains
The milky innocence of infant veins;
There swells the stubborn will, damps learning's fire,
The whirlwind wakes of uncontrouled desire,
Sears the young heart to images of woe,
And blasts the buds of Virtue as they blow.

Lo! where reclined, pale Beauty courts the breeze,
Diffused on sofas of voluptuous ease;
With anxious awe her menial train around
Catch her faint whispers of half-uttered sound;
See her, in monstrous fellowship, unite
At once the Scythian and the Sybarite!
Blending repugnant vices, misallied,
Which frugal nature purposed to divide;
See her, with indolence to fierceness joined,
Of body delicate, infirm of mind,
With languid tones imperious mandates urge;
With arm recumbent wield the household scourge;
And with unruffled mien, and placid sounds,
Contriving torture, and inflicting wounds.

Nor, in their palmy walks and spicy groves,
The form benign of rural Pleasure roves;
No milk-maid's song, or hum of village talk,
Soothes the lone poet in his evening walk:
No willing arm the flail unwearied plies,
Where the mixed sounds of cheerful labour rise;
No blooming maids and frolic swains are seen
To pay gay homage to their harvest queen:
No heart-expanding scenes their eyes must prove
Of thriving industry and faithful love:
But shrieks and yells disturb the balmy air,
Dumb sullen looks of woe announce despair,
And angry eyes through dusky features glare.
Far from the sounding lash the Muses fly,
And sensual riot drowns each finer joy.

Nor less from the gay East, on essenced wings,
Breathing unnamed perfumes, Contagion springs;
The soft luxurious plague alike pervades
The marble palaces and rural shades;
Hence thronged Augusta builds her rosy bowers,
And decks in summer wreaths her smoky towers;
And hence, in summer bowers, Art's costly hand
Pours courtly splendours o'er the dazzled land:
The manners melt;—one undistinguished blaze
O'erwhelms the sober pomp of elder days;
Corruption follows with gigantic stride,
And scarce vouchsafes his shameless front to hide:
The spreading leprosy taints every part,
Infects each limb, and sickens at the heart.
Simplicity, most dear of rural maids,
Weeping resigns her violated shades:
Stern Independence from his glebe retires,
And anxious Freedom eyes her drooping fires;
By foreign wealth are British morals changed,
And Afric's sons, and India's, smile avenged.

For you, whose tempered ardour long has borne
Untired the labour, and unmoved the scorn;
In Virtue's fasti be inscribed your fame,
And uttered yours with Howard's honoured name;
Friends of the friendless—Hail, ye generous band!
Whose efforts yet arrest Heaven's lifted hand,
Around whose steady brows, in union bright,
The civic wreath and Christian's palm unite:
Your merit stands, no greater and no less,
Without, or with the varnish of success:
But seek no more to break a nation's fall,
For ye have saved yourselves—and that is all.
Succeeding times your struggles, and their fate,
With mingled shame and triumph shall relate;
While faithful History, in her various page,
Marking the features of this motley age,
To shed a glory, and to fix a stain,
Tells how you strove, and that you strove in vain.

To Mrs. P********, With Some Drawings Of Birds And Insects.

The kindred arts to please thee shall conspire,

One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre.

(Pope)


Amanda bids;-at her command again

I seize the pencil, or resume the pen;

No other call my willing hand requires,

And Friendship, better than a Muse inspires.

Painting and Poetry are near allied;

The kindred arts two sister Muses guide:

This charms the eye, that steals upon the ear;

There sounds are tuned, and colours blended here:

This with a silent touch enchants our eyes,

And bids a gayer, brighter world arise:

That, less allied to sense, with deeper art

Can pierce the close recesses of the heart;

By well-set syllables, and potent sound,

Can rouse, can chill the breast, can soothe, can wound;

To life adds motion, and to beauty soul,

And breathes a spirit through the finished whole:

Each perfects each, in friendly union joined;-

This gives Amanda's form, and that her mind.

But humbler themes my artless hand requires,

No higher than the feathered tribe aspires.

Yet who the various nations can declare

That plough with busy wing the peopled air?

These cleave the crumbling bark for insect food;

Those dip their crooked beak in kindred blood:

Some haunt the rushy moor, the lonely woods;

Some bathe their silver plumage in the floods;

Some fly to man, his household gods implore,

And gather round his hospitable door,

Wait the known call, and find protection there

From all the lesser tyrants of the air.

The tawny Eagle seats his callow brood

High on the cliff, and feasts his young with blood.

On Snowdon's rocks, or Orkney's wide domain,

Whose beetling cliffs o'erhang the Western main,

The royal bird his lonely kingdom forms

Amidst the gathering clouds and sullen storms;





Through the wide waste of air he darts his sight,

And holds his sounding pinions poised for flight;

With cruel eye premeditates the war,

And marks his destined victim from afar:

Descending in a whirlwind to the ground,

His pinions like the rush of waters sound;

The fairest of the fold he bears away,

And to his nest compels the struggling prey;

He scorns the game by meaner hunters tore,

And dips his talons in no vulgar gore.


With lovelier pomp along the grassy plain

The Silver Pheasant draws his shining train.

On Asia's myrtle shores, by Phasis' stream,

He spreads his plumage to the sunny gleam;

But when the wiry net his flight confines,

He lowers his purple crest, and inly pines:

The beauteous captive hangs his ruffled wing,

Opprest by bondage and our chilly spring.

To claim the verse unnumbered tribes appear,

That swell the music of the vernal year:


Seized with the spirit of the kindly May,

They sleek the glossy wing, and tune the lay;

With emulative strife the notes prolong,

And pour out all their little souls in song.

When winter bites upon the naked plain,

Nor food nor shelter in the groves remain,

By instinct led, a firm united band,

As marshaled by some skillful general's hand,

The congregated nations wing their way

In dusky columns o'er the trackless sea;

In clouds unnumbered annual hover o'er

The craggy Bass, or Kilda's utmost shore;

Thence spread their sails to meet the southern wind,

And leave the gathering tempest far behind;

Pursue the circling sun's indulgent ray,

Course the swift seasons, and o'ertake the day.

Not so the insect race, ordained to keep

The lazy sabbath of a half-year's sleep:

Entombed beneath the filmy web they lie,

And wait the influence of a kinder sky.


When vernal sunbeams pierce their dark retreat,

The heaving tomb distends with vital heat;

The half-formed brood, impatient of their cell,

Start from their trance, and burst their silken shell;-

Trembling awhile they stand, and scarcely dare

To launch at once upon the untried air:

At length assured, they catch the favouring gale,

And leave their sordid spoils, and high in ether sail.

So when brave Tancred struck the conscious rind,

He found a nymph in every trunk confined;


The forest labours with convulsive throes,

The bursting trees the lovely births disclose,

And a gay troop of damsels round him stood,

Where late was rugged bark and lifeless wood.

Lo! the bright train their radiant wings unfold!

With silver fringed, and freckled o'er with gold:

On the gay bosom of some fragrant flower

They idly fluttering live their little hour;

Their life all pleasure, and their task all play,

All spring their age, and sunshine all their day.

Not so the child of sorrow, wretched Man,

His course with toil concludes, with pain began;

That his high destiny he might discern,

And in misfortune's school this lesson learn….

Pleasure's the portion of the inferior kind;

But glory, virtue, Heaven for Man designed.

What atom-forms of insect life appear!

And who can follow Nature's pencil here?

Their wings with azure, green and purple glossed,

Studded with coloured eyes, with gems embossed,


Inlaid with pearl, and marked with various stains

Of lively crimson through their dusky veins.

Some shoot like living stars athwart the night,

And scatter from their wings a vivid light,

To guide the Indian to his tawny loves,

As through the woods with cautious step he moves.

See the proud giant of the beetle race;

What shining arms his polished limbs enchase!

Like some stern warrior formidably bright,

His steely sides reflect a gleaming light:


On his large forehead spreading horns he wears,

And high in air the branching antlers bears:

O'er many an inch extends his wide domain,

And his rich treasury swells with hoarded grain.

Thy friend thus strives to cheat the lonely hour,

With song or paint, an insect or a flower:-

Yet if Amanda praise the flowing line,

And bend delighted o'er the gay design,

I envy not nor emulate the fame

Or of the painter's or the poet's name:


Could I to both with equal claim pretend,

Yet far, far dearer were the name of Friend.

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