THOMAS DAY.

London-1748-1789.

The life of Thomas Day has been written at some length, by Mr. Kier, who omitted all its most remarkable circumstances; these have been selected by Miss Seward, in her Memoirs of Darwin. Both writers deserve some censure. Biography should never be written, unless the whole truth is told, and the whole truth ought never to be told, while any good feelings can be wounded, or any evil ones gratified by divulging it. It is well that the heart of every remarkable man should be laid open to posterity: but it is not well, that his friends and his enemies should be invited to the dissection.

Day has been anathematized as a Jacobin, by the same equitable and charitable spirit of reflex law which has placed Aristotle and Socrates in Hell, because they were not Christians. His options were often erroneous, his feelings always right; and though he was extravagantly eccentrick, his virtues were at least as singular, as his eccentricities.

Sandford and Merton,will, no doubt, be included in the first English Index Expurgatorius. Till, however, we have one, it will continue to be read with profit and pleasure, by those for whom it is designed.

THE DYING NEGRO.

The following Poem was occasioned by a fact, which had recently happened at the time of its first publication, in 1773; A Negro, belonging to the captain of a WestIndiaman, having agreed to marry a white woman his fellow servant; in order to effect his purpose, had left his master's house, and procured himself to be baptized; but being detected and taken, he was sent on board the captain's vessel, then lying in the river; where, finding no chance of escaping, and preferring death to another voyage to America, he took an opportunity of stabbing himself. As soon as his determination is fixed, he is supposed to write this Epistle to his intended wife.

ARM'D with thy sad last gift- the power to die,.
Thy shafts, stern Fortune, now I can defy;
Thy dreadful mercy points at length the shore,
Where all is peace, and men are slaves no more;
-This weapon, even in chains, the brave can

wield,

And vanquish'd, quit triumphantly the field:

-Beneath such wrongs let pallid Christians live, Such they can perpetrate, and may forgive.

Yet while I tread that gulph's tremendous brink,
Where nature shudders, and where beings sink,
Ere yet this hand a life of torment close,
And end by one determined stroke my woes,
Is there a fond regret, which moves my mind,
To pause, and cast a ling'ring look behind?
-O my lov'd bride!-for I have call'd thee mine,
Dearer than life, whom I with life resign,

For thee even here this faithful heart shall glow,
A pang
shall rend me, and a tear shall flow--
How shall I soothe thy grief, since fate denies-

Thy pious duties to my closing eyes?

I cannot clasp thee in a last embrace,
Nor gaze in silent anguish on thy face;
I cannot raise these fetter'd arms for thee,
To ask that mercy Heaven denies to me;
Yet let thy tender breast my sorrows share,
Bleed for my wounds, and feel my deep despair.
Yet let thy tears bedew a wretch's grave,

to thee my soul I breathe

Whom Fate forbade thy tenderness to save,
Receive these sighs -
Fond love in dying groans is all I can bequeath.

"So be thy life's gay prospects all o'ercast, All thy fond hopes dire disappointment blast! Thus end thy golden visions, son of pride! Whose ruthless ruffians tore me from my bride; That beauteous prize Heaven had reserved at last, Sweet recompense for all my sorrows past. O may thy harden'd bosom never prove

The tender joys of friendship or of love!

Yet may'st thou, doom'd to hopeless flames a

prey,

In unrequited passion pine away!

May every transport violate thy rest,

Which tears the jealous lover's gloomy breast!
May secret anguish gnaw thy cruel heart,
'Till death in all his terrours wing the dart;
Then, to complete the horror of thy doom,
A favour'd rival smile upon thy tomb!"

66

Why does my lingering soul her flight delay ? Come, lovely maid, and gild the dreary way! Come, wildly rushing with disorder'd charms, And clasp thy bleeding lover in thy arms;

Close his sad eyes, receive his parting breath,
And soothe him sinking to the shades of death!
O come-thy presence can my pangs beguile,
And bid the inexorable tyrant smile;
Transported will I languish on thy breast,
And sink enraptured to eternal rest:
The hate of men, the wrongs of fate forgive,
Forget my woes, and almost wish to live.
-Ah! rather fly, lest aught of doubt control
The dreadful purpose labouring in my soul;
Tears must not bend me, nor thy beauties move,
This hour I triumph over fate and love!

-"Again with tenfold rage my bosom burns, And all the tempest of my soul returns; Again the furies fire my madning brain, And death extends his sheltering arms in vain ; For unrevenged I fall, unpitied die; And with my blood glut Pride's insatiate eye! Thou Christian God! to whom so late I bow'd, To whom my soul its new allegiance vow'd, When crimes like these, thy injured power prophane,

O God of Nature! art thou call'd in vain ?.