From the tender, brave Jack her danger espying, Till o'erpow'r'd by the waves they both sunk, and dying, In liberty's land, thus her dictates abusing, (The safeguard of Britain) her freedom refusing Be just then my country, to gratitude rise, * * In these lines, our attention is drawn to that peculiar kind of oppression which has been entailed upon a deserving class of men by the corruption of the times; and we cannot too forcibly express our "abhorrence of a species of licensed injury, which is repugnant to the feelings of every heart capable of reflection, and susceptible of humanity. We refer to the detestable practice of impressing men-a practice our Constitution is ashamed to own; founded in the abuse of power, and supported by the flimsy plea of precedent-as if precedent, though it were older than the flood, could sanction wrongs, or wipe the wrinkles from the distorted front of error. It would be superfluous to enumerate here the advantages we derive from our seamen. The luxuries-the conveniences of life; the extent of our commerce; the certainty and accumulation of our knowledge; the perfection of our arts; and even our character as a nation-are furnished, promoted, or influenced, by the number and activity of our mariners. Indeed we can scarcely open our eyes without beholding some monument of their value, as citizens—of their claim to our esteem and gratitude, as men. Is not that Government defective in its principles, or corrupt in its administration, which cannot afford equal protection to all its citizens? which builds the safety of one class on the oppression of another? which, as a body, commits crimes for which an individual would suffer death? Thus, for THE GOOD OF THE PUBLIC, the seaman is plundered-not of his THE FARMER. COME each jolly fellow My boys, we will try it, Dull thinking will make a man crazy: goods, or gold-but of what is infinitely more dear to him, his freedom and his happiness. Hurried with impunity from every thing which ties him to the world, to life, and to felicity-he is perpetually confined to the worst of dungeons, for no crime but that he was a mariner: and if not immolated, a hapless victim, on the altar of war, he only regains his liberty when it can be of no use to him-Enfeebled in body, debased in mind, a burden to society, and a curse to himself, he lives in pain, and dies in wretchedness. From viewing the consequence, let us return to a nearer inspection of the perpetration, of what unbiassed reason must pronounce a crime. Imagine the joy of a crew, returning from a tedious and dangerous voyage, when the distant azure of their native mountains first rises to their delighted view. Each seaman's soul is in his eye. Already he anticipates the happy meeting. Eagerly he nears the wished-for port, and, in imagination, clasps a friend-a parent-a spouse or a sweetheart-to his throbbing breast. But, mark!-in the midst of his felicity, within hail of happiness, a band of ruffians rush aboard, and drag him to captivity. They, who deserve universal detestation, and severest punishment, are rewarded for their savage atrocity, by the protectors of innocence-the patrons of industry-and the repressors of wrong; while the aggrieved the injured, helpless mariner, who merited his country's protection and esteem, is torn from all that he loves, and consigned to the aggravated horrors of blasted hope, deplorable slavery, and destructive war. this be justice?-Posterity shall hear-but will posterity believe -that the same country, which gave liberty to Africa, saw with indifference-nay, with approbation, thousands of her sons languishing in unmerited bondage ?" Can For here I am king, Let us drink, laugh, and sing, Let no man appear as a stranger; But show me the ass That refuses his glass, And I'll order him hay in a manger. By plowing and sowing, By reaping and mowing, Dame Nature supplies me with plenty; I've a bed for a friend, Were it not for my seeding, You would surely be starv'd without me: And happy when friends are about me: My boys, while you're able, All music surpasses, Let the mighty and great My own chickens and ham, And shear my own sheep, and I'll wear it. I have lawns and I've bowers, That follow the plough, Drink long life and success to the farmer. SALLY ROY. FAIR Sally, once the village pride, Grief broke the heart of gentle Sally. Swift from the arms of weeping love, The virgin train in tears are seen, THE BOSOM OF LOVE. How sweet to recline on the bosom we love, That raises our souls far from scenes that are here. When life's busy scene threatens clouds o'er our head, And frail fickle fortune now leaves us to mourn, We lean on love's bosom, when friendship is dead, And blest in our love, we forget we're forlorn: Every care is at rest-all our sorrow is fled, But the thought that love's bosom should from us be torn. And when in the calm vale of years we recline, strove, How blest is the thought that whene'er we decline, We decline to the grave on the bosom we love: Of all thy choice blessings, kind Heav'n be it mine, Thro' life's varied scene, the soft bosom of love. WHEN THY BOSOM HEAVES THE SIGH. |