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THE WEST INDIAN SLAVE OWNER.
See the dull Creole, at his pompous board,
His children, sprung alike from sloth and vice,
MOTION FOR A NEW TRIAL, In the Cause of Nose versus Eyes, (vide Cowper's “Report,”
at page 119.)
Lips moving for a New Trial“In the cause at last Sessions, of Nose versus Eyes, It will clearly appear, my Lords, Eyes suffer’d
wrong; That mistakes from a pressure of business will rise, Must be surely allow'd by my learned friend Tongue. “Eyes now are awaken'd to see their distress, And the loss they'll lament, too, as long as they live, Of the grace and the wisdom they us'd to possess, And all the grave dignity spectacles give. “My learned friend says, 'they are made with a straddle;'
[so; But what does this prove? though the fact may be Does the horse or the ass claim the right to the
saddle, Because it fits close to his back ?—surely no! “Let your Lordships imagine no eyes to the face,
learned friend's instance is here just in
verted) Are spectacles worn, or put on, in this case? Not a nose in all Europe would dare to assert it.
“ That my clients, the Eyes, may give way to a nap, With the spectacles on, is past all contradiction; But, your Lordships must see, this occurs through mishap
sfiction. That they're wilfully clos'd, is my learned friend's “Will your Lordships but turn to 5th Edward the
Third, — An act which undoubtedly settles the question, And shews that new trials were granted and heard Of less moment than this, and less weighty digestion. “ Before I conclude, I appeal to the Court,And your Lordships will surely my argument grantThat the action commenc'd through an envious
retort; For the Nose, as a nose, cannot spectacles want.” The Chief Baron cried, Hem! and then strok'd
down his face; And when all the Court re-consider'd it o'er, [case, They wish'd well to the plaintiffs, and pitied their But could grant no new trial, the cause to restore. Yet to make up all difference, their Lordships
propos'd,That Eyes in this case no advantage might lack,“That a glass should be fix’d, where the buttons
were clos’d, By a ribbon suspended, blue, yellow, or black : “That this should be deem'd the sole right of the
Eyes, To them, and their farthest descendants for ever, With all the immunities thence to arise, To quiz, or to stare through, look clumsy, or clever.'
THE COTTON FACTORY.
An unnatural light, Prepar'd for never-resting Labour's eyes, Breaks from a many-window'd fabric huge; And at the appointed hour a bell is heard, Of harsher import than the curfew-knoll That spake the Norman Conqueror's stern behestA local summons to unceasing toil! Disgorg’d are now the ministers of day; And as they issue from the illumin'd pile, A fresh band meets them at the crowded doorAnd in the court-and where the rumbling stream, That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels, Glares, like a troubled spirit in its bed Among the rocks below. Men, maidens, youths, Mothers, and little children, boys and girls, Enter, and each the wonted task resumes Within this temple—where is offer'd up To Gain, the master-idol of the realm, Perpetual sacrifice.
-Domestic bliss ! (Or call it comfort, by a humbler name) How art thou blighted for the poor man's hearth! Lo! in such neighbourhoods, from morn to eve, The habitations empty! or perchance The Mother left alone—no helping hand To rock the cradle of her peevish babe; No daughters round her, busy at the wheel, Or in despatch of each day's little growth Of household occupation: no nice arts Of needle-work; no bustle at the fire, Where once the dinner was prepar'd with pride; Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind;
Nothing to praise, or teach, or to command !
With what unknown delight the mother smild,
When this frail treasure in her arms she press'd ! Her prayer was heard—she clasp'd a living child,
But how the gift transcends the poor request ! A child was all she ask'd, with
many a vow: Mother-behold the child an angel now ! Now in her Father's house she finds a place;
Or if to earth she take a transient flight, 'Tis to fulfil the
purpose To guide thy footsteps to the world of light; A ministering spirit sent to thee, That where she is, there thou may’st also be.
Miss J. Taylor
of his grace,
THE SQUIRE'S PEW.
Shoots through the yellow pane;
And gilds the fringe again: