On your humanity 'twould insult seem,
To frame excuses for my artless theme,
I am, from that ill-fated lineage sprung,
Term’d Negroe by the low, illiberal tongue.
Fate on my youthful years indignant lowr’d,
And in life’s bowl her baneful acids Pour’d:
Plac’d me where un-enlighten’d ignorance,
Was for obedience deem’d the best defence.
Through studious toils, with honest ardor fir’d,
Some little learning I by stealth acquir’d.
These later years of my alotted round,
Have been (bless heav’n!) with ev’ry comfort crown’d.
Plac’d with the truly good, and nobly great,
More mild than freedom seems my servile state:
My chief delights from well-penn’d books arise;
Thee, blest Philanthropy! I idolize.
Nature’s great limner, artist all divine!
ln Toby’s portrait where sweet shades combine?
So good to dear Philanthropy so giv’n,
His very oaths are blotted out in heav’n.
I vow l’d in the dog-days walk ten mile,
With honest Trim the moments to beguile.
Your sermons, which such pleasing truths impart,
Have touch’d - (I hope) amended Sancho’s heart.
How does my soul in tender pity bleed,
When you the captive`s cause thus pow'rful plead!
“How vast their numbers, who, in ev’ry age
Have bow’d beneath oppression's ruthless rage?
Beneath fell tigers of the human kind,
Still deaf to pity, to distress still blind.
Reflect on slavery: What black seas of woe,
From its contaminated fountains flow?
How many millions drink the bitter bowl,
Which slavery forces on the loathing soul?”
Spare, dearest Sir! One hour’s attention Spare,
The weighty woes of bondage to declare;
The piercing pains which at this present hour,
In our West Indies Africk’s sons endure.
This subject, touch’d by your superior art,
Perchance, of thousands would asswage the smart.
If but one, gods! what a glorious prize
Would from the pleasing retrospect arise?
And sure you are, like bounteous heav’n above,
An Epicurean in the acts of love.
Think, Sir, in me you view th’uplifted hands,
Of millions more of luckless Moorish bands!
Form to your mind their attitudes of woe!
Hark! from their lips what plaintive accents flow!
Your heart must melt - must your kind hand dispose,
ln pow’rful phrase to lead the Captive's Cause.