« EelmineJätka »
My shackles I plunge in the main,
1. ERE yellow autumn from our plains retir'd,
His roof, a refuge to the feather'd kind:
The blust'ring tempest and the chilly snow,
For this, e'en now, they prune their vig'rous wing;
And prove their strength in many an airy ring.
Unknown their destin'd stage, unmark'd their way.
That point the path to realms of endless day;
No doubts divert our steady steps aside;
It may not be improper to remind the young reader, that the anguish of the unhappy negroes, on being separated for ever from their country, and dearest connexions, with the dreadful prospect of perpetual slavery, frequently becomes so exquisite as to produce derangement of mind, and suicide.
Where is the
mani thats out the
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Of steve the tocant of a momens will Fove it she will she will, • you may If she mint she wont so wont so thars unt
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MAR 18 2004
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