3 O English gentlemen! your hearts have bled for the black slave,—
You heard his melancholy moan from the Atlantic wave;
He thought upon his father's land, and cried, A long farewell,
But blessed you, gazing at the sun, when first his fetters fell.
4 And if ye plead for creatures dumb, and deem their fate severe,
Shall human wrongs, in your own land, call forth no generous tear?
Humanity implores; awake from apathy's cold sleep,
And when you plead for others' wrongs, forget not the poor sweep.
5 When summer comes, the bells shall ring, and flowers and hawthorns blow,
The village lasses and the lads shall all a-Maying go:
Kind-hearted lady, may thy soul in heaven a blessing reap,
Whose bounty at that season flows, to cheer the little sweep.[193]
6 'Tis yours, ye English gentlemen, such comforts to prolong;
'Tis yours the friendless to protect, and all who suffer wrong;
But one day in the toiling year the friendless sweep is gay,
Protect, and smiling industry shall make his long year May.
THE BLACKSMITH.
1 How cheerful in the winter's night,
As down the lane I stray;
The blacksmith's forge shoots out its light,
And shines across the way!
2 The smith his labouring bellows blows,
And now his stroke repeats;
Beats the red iron, as it glows,
And shapes it as he beats.
3 While, flash! the frequent sparkles fly,
And tongs are hissing red;
Content and cheerful industry
Sweeten his daily bread.