Whilst awful pause marks the advancing ill,
Whose gathering horrors the scar'd fancy fill,
Like Afric's own Tornado,—must its rise
Be view'd, portentous, staining British skies?
Can the full storm, that blackens in its course,
From British climes derive its fated source?
From British climes, alas! the Demon springs,
On whose polluted form and horrid wings
Hangs, of dire Slavery, the collected store,
Which, hapless Afric, on thy injur'd shore