Note 338 — DE LA LITTÉRATURE DES NÈGRES.

Hail, happy day, when, smiling like the morn, Fair Freedom rose New England to adorn: Long lost to realms beneath the northern skies She shines supreme, while hated faction dies. Soon us appear'd the Goddess long desir'd Sick at the view, she languish'd and expir'd. Thus from the splendors of the morning light The owl in sadness seeks the caves of night. No more, America, in mournful strain Of wrongs, and grievance unredress'd complain, No longer shalt thou dread the iron chain, Which wanton Tyranny with lawless hand Had made and with it meant t' enslave the land. Should you, my lord, while you peruse my song, Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung, Whence flow the wishes for the common good, By feeling hearts alone best understood, I, young in life, by seeming cruel fate Was snatch'd from Afric's fancy'd happy seat: What pangs excruciating must molest, What sorrows labor in my patents' breast? Steel'd was that soul, and by no misery mov'd, That from a father seiz'd his babe belov'd: Such, such my case. And can I then but pray Others may never feel tyrannic sway? etc., etc.