For us alone awarded,

A safe spot, guarded
By an imperishable mound

Of giant hills that stand around;

Their hoar heads mixing with the blue profound; Eternal pillars of the skies

Where the old raven and sea-eagle flies.

A pleasure garden showing like a fort,
As in the desert found,

An old forgotten Babylonian court!

And will you not live in a quiet vale,
The haunt of many a nightingale?
A hidden spot where the hawthorn grows,
The blue-bell, and the sweet wild rose;
With rocks to which the apple clings,
And streams with mazy wanderings;
And in the midst a wooded hill,
That makes a fall for a dashing rill;

And at the foot a quiet lake,

With a little boat for your dear sake:

And will you not live in a vale like this,
A garden life of gentle bliss,

And meekly join in songs of love

With the full-hearted turtle-dove?

And will you not, with me, fulfil

The visions we form'd when we knew no ill?

The infant hopes-but need I tell

The flowery thoughts I loved so well;
The gleams which guardian angels sent,
When I was young and innocent,
Into the depths of my smiling heart,
Which were an earthly counterpart--
A shadowing forth of heaven to me,
The Canaan of my infancy!

And hast not thou full often dwelt

On hopes which made thy young heart melt?

Nay, Mary, look not in my face,

With such a smile-such gentle sadness,

Hiding thy meek tears in the veil of gladness;
Dear girl, I stray'd but for a moment's space,
A short and giddy race—

Now I am with thee, love, to calm thy fears,
And kiss away thy tears.

And didst thou fear my loyalty?

"Twas but a radiant butterfly,

An unsubstantial thing—

All glittering bright with many a gaudy hue;

And might I not pursue,

O'er earth, and air, and sea, with wildest wandering?

Dear girl, when thou, with pleasant tears,

Softly confessed thy love, so long conceal'd,
Which I had duly won, the fruit of patient years,
And after many days didst slowly yield

Thy heart to me, whom nature gave to inherit
The sunward pinion and the burning spirit;

E'en then I hush'd to rest,

Thy gentle fears confest

That thou didst love my wings of poetry,
Yet feared lest I should fly

Far, far away, and never look behind,

For that a poet had a wandering mind.

And then I said, oh! gentle maid,

Be thou no more afraid;

I'm bound to thee by a golden chain,

Which reaches up to heaven and o'er the sea

Yet am I bound to thee

Check in my wildest flights, I'm with thee, love, again.

D. C.

ON WEST INDIAN SLAVERY.

We espouse no party. Zadig himself did not listen to the memorable controversy about Zoroaster and his griffins, with more composure and impartiality than we hope to display on most of the subjects which interest politicians. We are neutrals, -neutrals after San Miguel's own heart,-desirous only to mitigate the evils which we cannot avert. If we ever descend into the field of battle, it will be with the feelings not of combatants but of Sisters of Charity. It will be our object, not to fight under the banners of either army, but to render the offices of humanity and courtesy to both.

On the question, however, which we are about to discuss, we think that we may, without inconsistency, take a decided part. It is a question which does not promote the objects, or rest upon the support, of any faction. It is a question which has united men of all sects and parties; which has combined Tories with Reformers, and Prelates with Field-preachers. Above all, it is a question which involves the interests of the most miserable and degraded race that ever existed in a civilized community. On all these grounds we shall, without hesitation, lend our strongest support to those principles of humanity and justice, which alone can constitute the substantial prosperity of states, and the durable glory of statesmen.

Sixteen years have elapsed since the abolition of the slavetrade. During that period, the friends of humanity and freedom have anxiously looked for some alteration in the system of colonial bondage. It might have been supposed that the improvements which could not be expected from the mercy of the planter, would be at length produced by his cupidity; and that the cessation of the traffic in human flesh and blood, as it increased the

value, would also increase the comforts of the slave. It might at least have been imagined that the planters would, for the future, abstain from all practices which might tend to diminish the numbers of those whom they could no longer replace by fresh importations. It is surely time to inquire whether those expectations have been fulfilled, or whether the abuses of our colonial system have become too deeply seated to be eradicated even by the avarice which created them.

What then is the present state of the Negroes in our West Indian islands?

They are compelled to labour without remuneration. Their master has the sole power of determining the nature, the degree, and the duration of their labour; and the amount of the pittance which is to prolong their wretched and hopeless existence.

They can acquire no property of any description. Whatever their own labour may produce, whatever the bounty of others may bestow, belongs to their master.

They may be sold at the pleasure of their owner, or at the suit of his creditors. The colonial codes consider them merely as the personal property of the planter; who is, in consequence, always permitted, and often commanded, to separate them from all with whom they are connected by the ties of blood or of friendship. As often as a blank is drawn in the precarious lottery of the West Indian sugar trade, this horrible transfer takes place. The nearest relatives, the dearest friends, are for ever torn asunder; and the law itself interferes, to turn into the bitterness of death the last consolation which the charities of human nature afford to the last extreme of human misery. The slave can appeal to no court of law. action. He can undertake no prosecution. He can bear no testimony against a white offender. The law takes no cognizance of any crime perpetrated by a free person, unless it can be proved by the evidence of free witnesses. And in these colonies, be it remembered, the free inhabitants form so small a proportion of the population that such evidence can rarely be procured.

He can bring no

The person of the slave is almost wholly in the power of his master. He works under the lash. He is driven forward like a horse, scourged if he come too late, scourged if he fall behind the line of his fellows. There is no exemption for the women, too often alternately the sport of an unmanly cruelty and an unrefined desire. Age, weakness, sickness, pregnancy, are excuses which the overseer accepts or rejects at pleasure. The law universally recognizes the power of the proprietor to punish his bondsmen with the cart-whip or the stocks. From extreme outrage, from mutilation, and murder, it does indeed accord to these human chattels a nominal protection. But of what avail is this privilege? Neither the injured negro, nor any of his companions

in servitude, can appear in a court of justice. A white prosecutor and white witnesses must be procured. Let us suppose all these difficulties surmounted; others more formidable still remain. Tyranny, when driven from the outworks with which the law surrounds her, takes refuge within the more impregnable rampart of depraved feelings and manners. The criminal is to be tried before men who, as the colleagues of his inordinate power, are not disposed to look with severity on its abuse, and who are generally prepossessed in his favour, by community of interest or of guilt.

The strength of this defensive league of oppression is best illustrated by examples. It is not long since the grand jury of one of the islands presented the governor as a nuisance. And this intolerable insult was offered to the representative of the King, to a most estimable man, (who has uniformly been mentioned with respect by persons of all opinions in England,) solely because he interfered in behalf of some oppressed female slaves. The case of Hodge, of Tortola, is sufficiently remarkable to deserve a concise recapitulation. That man put a slave to death with circumstances of hideous and ineffable cruelty. He continued after this event to mingle in society, without calling forth, as it appears, any strong expression of public detestation. A private quarrel induced some person to bring the case forward. It was proved by overwhelming evidence that he had committed a murder as wanton and barbarous, we will venture to say, as any recorded in the annals of criminal jurisprudence. To acquit him was impossible. The jury recommended him to mercy. The governor refused to listen to the recommendation. In England, it would have been difficult to protect such a monster against the rage of the people during his passage from the bar to the prison. But so deeply did the colonists resent the execution of one of their own body for so venial a trespass, that it became necessary to proclaim martial law, in order to prevent a tumult and a

rescue.

We will advert to one other case. A wretch named Huggins, in the public market-place of Nevis, ordered several negroes to be flogged with a barbarity which ruined the health of all, and was supposed to have occasioned the death of one of them. A pregnant woman was among the number; and, that nothing might be wanting to this horrid outrage against human nature, the horrible office was performed by the brother of one of the sufferers. The law of the island assigns a limit to the number of lashes which a master may inflict at one time. This limit Huggins had far exceeded. He was brought to trial. The crime had been committed in open day-in the most public place of the colony. It could not be, and it was not, denied. The defence was rested upon the principle, that the law had been