it but he was impressed. It spoke to him in a language, which was at once
intelligible and irresistible. It brought forth the tear of sympathy in
behalf of the sufferers, and it fixed their sufferings in his heart. The
committee too had been particularly vigilant during the whole of the year,
with respect to the public papers. They had suffered no statement in behalf
of those interested in the continuance of the trade, to go unanswered. Dr.
Dickson, the author of the Letters on Slavery before mentioned, had come
forward again with his services on this occasion, and by his active
cooperation with a sub-committee appointed for the purpose, the coast was
so well cleared of our opponents, that, though they were seen the next year
again, through the medium of the same papers, they appeared only in sudden
incursions, as it were, during which they darted a few weapons at us; but
they never afterward ventured upon the plain to dispute the matter, inch by
inch, or point by point, in an open and manly manner.

But other circumstances occurred to keep up a hatred of the trade among the
people in this interval, which, trivial as they were, ought not to be
forgotten. The amiable poet Cowper had frequently made the Slave-trade the
subject of his contemplation. He had already severely condemned it in his
valuable poem The Task. But now he had written three little fugitive pieces
upon it. Of these the most impressive was that, which he called The Negro's
Complaint, and of which the following is a copy:

"Forced from home and all its pleasures,
Afric's coast I left forlorn,
To increase a stranger's treasures,
O'er the raging billows borne;
Men from England bought and sold me,
Paid my price in paltry gold;
But, though theirs they have inroll'd me,
Minds are never to be sold.

"Still in thought as free as ever,
What are England's rights, I ask.
Me from my delights to sever,
Me to torture, me to task?
Fleecy locks and black complexion
Cannot forfeit Nature's claim;
Skins may differ, but affection
Dwells in black and white the same.

"Why did all-creating Nature
Make the plant, for which we toil?
Sighs must fan it, tears must water,
Sweat of ours must dress the soil.
Think, ye masters, iron-hearted,
Lolling at your jovial boards,
Think, how many backs have smarted
For the sweets your cane affords.

"Is there, as you sometimes tell us,
Is there one,