scribers
and of the committee, and to be sent to various parts of the kingdom.

On June the 7th, the committee met again for the despatch of business,
when, among other things, they voted their thanks to Dr. Baker, of Lower
Grosvenor-street, who had been one of my first assistants, for his
services to the cause.

At this committee John Barton, one of the members of it, stated that he
was commissioned by the author of a poem, entitled _The Wrongs of
Africa_, to offer the profits which might arise from the sale of that
work, to the committee, for the purpose of enabling them to pursue the
object of their institution. This circumstance was not only agreeable,
inasmuch as it showed us that there were others who felt with us for the
injured Africans, and who were willing to aid us in our designs, but it
was rendered still more so when we were given to understand that the
poem was written by Mr. Roscoe, of Liverpool, and the preface to it by
the late Dr. Currie, who then lived in the same place. To find friends
to our cause rising up from a quarter where we expected scarcely
anything but opposition, was very consolatory and encouraging. As this
poem was well written, but cannot now be had, I shall give the
introductory part of it, which is particularly beautiful, to the perusal
of the reader. It begins thus:--

Offspring of Love divine, Humanity!
To whom, his eldest born, th' Eternal gave
Dominion o'er the heart; and taught to touch
Its varied stops in sweetest unison;
And strike the string that from a kindred breast
Responsive vibrates! from the noisy haunts
Of mercantile confusion, where thy voice
Is heard not; from the meretricious glare
Of crowded theatres, where in thy place
Sits Sensibility, with wat'ry eye,
Dropping o'er fancied woes her useless tear;
Come thou, and weep with me substantial ills;
And execrate the wrongs that Afric's sons,
Torn from their natal shore, and doom'd to bear
The yoke of servitude in foreign climes,
Sustain. Nor vainly let our sorrows flow,
Nor let the strong emotion rise in vain;
But may the land contagion widely spread,
Till in its flame the unrelenting heart
Of avarice melt in softest sympathy--
And one bright blaze of universal love
In grateful incense rises up to Heaven!

Form'd with the same capacity of pain,
The same desire of pleasure and of ease,
Why feels not man for man! When nature shrinks
From the slight puncture