Hence deathless essences that shall survive
Sun, sea, and skies, and live while angels live,
Are vilely bought, and infamously sold,
A man, a friend, a brother, truck'd for gold.
Like the stout ox that

If pure religion fill'd thy groves and bowers,
And shed her lustre on thy sea-girt shores:
If liberty throughout thy small domain,
Humanity and friendship in her train;
On fell oppression could erect her thone,
And raise thy climate's beauties by her own;
Then hail thou lovely, verdant, sunny Isle,

Where summers bloom, and seasons gaily smile.

I am, dear Sir,

With the highest respect,

Your obliged, humble Servant,

THE SPIRITUAL THEFT, or stolen
BIBLE.

WRITTEN ON HAVING MY GILT POCKET BIBLE STOLEN

BY A BLACK MAN IN ST. GEORGE, SOMMER ISLANDS, IN THE YEAR 1808.

Jove fix'd it certain that whatever day,

Man makes a slave, takes half his worth away....HOMER.

AN African, void of uprightness within,

Who like many others, thought stealing no sin;
Intent on converting whatever he saw

To private account, without license or law;
Saw my gilt pocket Bible, laid by on a shelf,
And stole it to barter for liquor or pelf.
It was my instructor; I lov'd it more dear
Than misers their lucre, or tiplers their beer;
Its pure revelations a rapture imprest

Than riches or diamonds more dear to my breast.
If riches delight, 'twas a fathomless mine,

Each sentence is worthy in diamonds to shine:

Ifscience, the truth written-pages unfold, A wisdom more precious than rubies or gold; If happiness charms you, there shines the bright pearl, Will make you more joyful than Marquis or Earl. How oft with a smile of delight I would say, Take health, fortune, friends, and my credit away; But leave me my Bible, my treasure it is; The spring of my joy, and my charter to bliss. If cast by misfortune on some distant isle, Where seasons ne'er bloom, and the skies dever smile; Beneath the cold pole in a region of snow, [blow: Or on Fuego's* bleak Cape, where the fierce tempests With only one volume my mind to solace, I'd choose the pure records of covenant grace! Ah! why would the varlet my Bible purloin! The book he hath taken, the truth is still mine : I hope the sweet word is for ever imprest, On the truth-written tablets conceald in my breast. Perhaps 'twas the gilding that dazzled his eye; So millions are smit with the glare of a toy. They grasp at a pebble, and think it a gem, And tinsel is gold, if it glitter, to them. , Hence dazzled with beauty the lover is'smit; The hero with honour, the poet with wit;

Cape Horn, South America.

The fop with his feather, his snuff-box, and cane, The nymph with her novels, the merchant with gain. The thing was remarkably odd, I confess;

And strikes me as being a singular case :

Men rifle the young, and purloin from the old,
Rob maidens of virtue, and misers of gold:
While bigots deprive you of conscience's right;
And tyrants may rob you of liberty bright:
But a Bible to steal is uncommonly odd:
Was there ever a thief who delighted in God?
Here, let us imagine the rogue had a plea,

My betters are verily guilty as me!

The trade's become common, as all the world knows;
From prelates so grave to your smart college beaux
"Each man has his price," so the Infidels swear!
And pulpits sell truth like the forum and bar.
The velvet strain'd Doctor, who softens his text,
This world his delight, tho' a guide to the next;
Sells truth with a witness, to make it connive,
At every ill practice, the wealthy contrive:
Each finical priest, and polite pulpiteer,
Who dazzles the fancy, and tickles the ear,
With exquisite tropes, and a musical style;
As gay as a tulip, as polished as oil;