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-She thought of Pitt, heart-broken on his bier ;
And, "O, my country!" echo'd in her ear:

-She thought of Fox; she heard him faintly speak,
His parting

breath grew cold upon her cheek,
His dying accents trembled into air;
Spare injur’d Africa ! the Negro spare !"

She started from her trance !-and round the shore
Beheld her supplicating sons once more
Pleading the suit so long, so vainly tried,
Renew'd, resisted, promis'd, pledg’d, denied,
The Negro's claim to all his Maker gave,
And all the tyrant ravish'd from the slave.
Her yielding heart confess'd the righteous claim,
Sorrow had soften'd it, and love o'ercame ;
Shame flush'd her noble cheek, her bosom burn’d;
To helpless, hopeless Africa she turn'd;
She saw her sister in the Mourner's face,
And rush'd with tears into her dark embrace :
“All hail !” exclaim'd the empress of the sea,
“Thy chains are broken, Africa, be free !"
“All hail!” replied the Mourner, “sle who broke
My bonds shall never wear a stranger's yoke."


From the Comedy of “She Stoops to Conquer,” by Goldsmith.

[Enter Hardcastle, followed by three or four awkward Servants.

Hard. Well, I hope you're perfect in the table exercise, I have been teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your places, and can show that you have been used to good company, without stirring from home.

AU. Ay, ay

Hard. When company comes, you are not to pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frighted rabbits, in a war.


All. No, no.
Hard. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn,

are to make a show at the side-table ; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough, are to place yourself be. hind my chair. But you're not to stand so, with your hands in your pockets. Take your hands from your pockets, Roger, and from your head, you blockhead you. See how Diggory carries his hands. They're a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter.

Dig. Ay, mind how I hold them : I learned to hold my hands this way when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being upon drill

Hard. You must not be so talkative, Diggory ; you must be all attention to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think of talking; you must see us drink, and not think of drinking ; you must see us eat, and not think of eating.

Dig. By the laws, your worship, that's parfectly impossi. ble. Whenever Diggory sees eating going forwards, ecod, he's always wishing for a mouthful himself.

Hard. Blockhead! is not a bellyful in the kitchen as good as a bellyful in the parlour ? Stay your stomach with that reflection.

Dig. Ecod, I thank your worship; I'll make a shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef in the pantry.

Hard. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then if I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story at table, you must not all burst out a laughing, as if you made part of the company.

Dig. Then ecod your vorship must not tell the story of Ould Grouse in the gun-room: I can't help laughing at that, (laughs heartily,) he, he, he !--for the soul of me. We have laughed at that these twenty years—ha, ha, ha!

Hard. Ha, ha, ha! The story is a good one. Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that—but still remember to be attentive. Suppose one of the company should call for a glass of wine, how will you behave?' A glass of wine, sir, if you please. (To Diggory.) Eh, why don't you move?

Dig. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage till I see the eatables and drinkables brought upon the table, and then I'm as bauld as a lion.

Hard. What, will nobody move ?
1st Serv. I'm not to leave this place.

2d Serv. I'm sure it's no place of mine.
3d Serv. Nor mine, for sartin.
Dig. Wauns, and I'm sure it canna be mine.

Hard. You numskulls ! and so while, like your betters, you are quarrelling for places, the guests must be starved. Oh! you dunces! I find I must begin all over again. But don't í hear a coach drive into the yard ? To your posts, you blockheads. I'll go in the mean time and give my old friend's son a hearty welcome at the gate. (Exit.)

Dig. By the elevens, my place is gone quite out of my head.

Roger. I know that my place is to be every where. 1st Serv. Where the devil is mine?

2d Serv. My place is to be nowhere at all; and so I’ze go about my business. (Exeunt Servants, running.)


Extract from Mr. Burke's Speech at Bristol, on declining the Poll, 1780.

Gentlemen,-I DECLINE the election. I have not canvass. ed the whole of this city in form. But I have taken such a view of it, as satisfies my own mind, that your choice will not ultimately fall upon me.

I am not in the least surprised, nor in the least angry, at this view of things. I have read the book of life for a long time, and I have read other books a little. Nothing has hap. pened to me, but what has happened to men much better than me, and in times, and in nations, full as good as the age

and country that we live in. To say that I am in no way concern. ed, would be neither decent nor true. The representation of Bristol was an object, on many accounts, dear to me; and I certainly should very far prefer it to any other in the king. dom. My habits are made to it; and it is, in general, more unpleasant to be rejected after long trial, than not to be cho. sen at all.

But, gentlemen, I will see nothing except your former kindness, and I will give way to no other sentiments than those of gratitude From the bottom of my heart I thank

you for what you have done for me. You have given me & long term, which is now expired. I have performed the conditions, and enjoyed all the profits to the full; and I now sarrender your estate into your hands, without being, in a sin. gle tile, or a single stone, impaired or wasted by my use. I have served the public for fifteen years. I have served you in particular for six. What is passed, is well stored. It is safe, and out of the power of fortune. What is to come, is in wiser hands than ours; and He, in whose hands it is, best knows, whether it is best for you and me, that I should be in Parliament, or even in the world.

Gentlemen, the melancholy event of yesterday reads to us an awful lesson against being too much troubled about any

of the objects of ordinary ambition. The worthy gentleman,* who has been snatched from us, at the moment of the elec. tion, and in the middle of the contest, whilst his desires were as warm, and his hopes as eager, as ours, has feelingly told us what shadows we are, and what shadows we pursue.

It has been usual for a candidate, who declines, to take his leave by a letter to the sheriffs ; but I received your trust in the face of day, and in the face of day, I accept your dismis. sion. I am not, -I am not at all ashamed to look upon you ; nor can my presence discompose the order of business here. I humbly and respectfully take my leave of the sheriffs, the candidates, and the electors ; wishing, heartily, that the choice may be for the best, at a time which calls, if ever time did call, for service that is not nominal. It is no play-thing you are about. I tremble, when I consider the trust I have presumed to ask. I confided, perhaps, too much in my in. tentions. They were really fair and upright; and I am bold to say, that I ask no ill thing for you, when, in parting from this place, I pray, that whomever you choose to succeed me, he may resemble me, exactly, in all things, except in my abili, ties to serve, and my fortune to please you.

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Extract from Lord Chatham's Speech, in the House of Lords, on the

Address to the Throne, at the opening of Parliament, on the 18th of November, 1777.

My Lords - I RISE to declare my sentiments on this most solemn and serious subject. It has imposed a load upon my mind, which, I fear, nothing can remove; but which impels me to endeavor its alleviation, by a free and unreserved communication of my sentiments.

In the first part of the address, I have the honor of heartily concurring with the noble earl who moved it. No man feels sincerer joy than I do ; none can offer more genuine congra. tulation, on every accession of strength to the protestant suc. cession.

But I must stop here. I will not join in congratulation on misfortune and disgrace. I cannot concur in a blind and servile address, which approves, and endeavors to sanctify the monstrous measures which have heaped disgrace and mis. fortune upon us.

This, my lords, is a perilous and tremendous moment! It is not a time for adulation. The smooth. ness of flattery cannot now avail ; cannot save us in this

rugged and awful crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the throne in the language of truth. We must dispel the delu. sion and the darkness which envelope it ; and display, in its full danger and true colors, the ruin that is brought to our doors.

This, my lords, is our duty. It is the proper function of this noble assembly, sitting, as we do, upon our honors in this house, the hereditary council of the crown. And who is the minister—where is the minister, that has dared to suggest to the throne the contrary, unconstitutional language, this day delivered from it? The accustomed language from the throne has been application to Parliament for advice, and a reliance on its constitutional advice and assistance. · As it is the right of Parliament to give, so it is the duty of the crown to ask it. But on this day, and in this extreme momentous exigency, no reliance is reposed on our constitutional coun. sels! no advice is asked from the sober and enlightened care

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