PITY FOR POOR LITTLE SWEEPS.

BY BARTON.

THE morn was dark, the wind was high

With many a gusty swell,

And from the moonless, starless sky,

The rain in torrents fell:

An hour it was when sleep seem'd dear,
And wakefulness allied to fear.

"Tis pleasant, on a summer night,
From tranquil rest to wake,

And see the moonbeams' silvery light
In gentle glory break

Through opening clouds or leafy trees,
Whose whispers own the passing breeze.

And 'tis delightful, just as day
Illumes the eastern skies,

To hear the first bird's matin lay,
Or cock's shrill clarion rise;

To list with unclos'd eyes, and then
Gently to sink in sleep again.

But on a stormy winter morn,

When all is dark and drear;

When every sound, too, seems forlorn,
Which breaks upon the ear;

If sleep be from the pillow gone,
The restless hours creep slowly on.

Such lot was mine, not long ago;
When to my ear was brought
A plaintive outcry, faint and low,
At first as faintly caught;

But soon the doleful whine of "Sweep!"
Betray'd its source, and "murder'd sleep."

For who could sleep, while such a strain,
By childish accents pour'd,

Brought all its wretchedness and pain
To be by thought explor'd,
And Fancy felt compell'd to range

Through sufferings varied, new, and strange?

The sea-boy, in the fearful din

Of wild waves crested white, Constrain'd the topmast's height to win,

In some tempestuous night;

His giddy, awful task may scan
With feelings worthy of a man.

The winds may rock him too and fro,
The thunder loudly rave;

The ligntnings flash, the waves below
May yawn an opening grave;
Yet with him to his post may climb

The germs of sentiment sublime.

Of danger brav'd, of honour won

By confidence and skill; Memories of feats by others done, Proud hopes he may fulfil;

And cheering thoughts within may glow Of messmates' watchful eyes below.

But thou, poor abject child! whose cry
Still haunts my memory's ear;
What can thy weary lot supply
The aching heart to cheer?

Poor outcast! what a doom is thine!
And nought, save fruitless pity, mine.

To brave the stormy winter's morn,
Half naked, sparely fed,
Dark, dangerous labyrinth's forlorn,
With limbs benumb'd to thread;
To lead this life from day to day,
Of filth and misery the prey.

To have been train'd to such a course

By menaces and blows;

To follow it with pain, perforce,
Through all its varied woes:

A weary lot is thine, indeed,
Which thus epitomiz'd can plead.

Yet thou, poor child! wast once, perchance, A widow's darling joy;

Whose speaking smile and sparkling glance Dwelt fondly on her boy;

Whose heart for thee fram'd schemes of bliss, Whose lips press'd thine with many a kiss.

But she is dead! and thou art left
To live thy weary day;

Of friends, of parents, hope bereft,
With none to cheer thy way;
With none thy footsteps to reclaim
From ignorance, and vice, and shame.

What though to outward sight thou wear
The human form divine,

How desolate thy scanty share
Of what it should enshrine,-
Of all that is RELIGION's fruit,
And raises Man above the Brute!

Yet, hast thou an immortal soul,
For which a SAVIOUR died;
And thou at Judgment's awful goal,
Thine audit must abide:

A solemn thought this, sure should be
To those who now might rescue thee!

THE NEGRO'S LAMENT FOR

MUNGO PARK.

WHERE the wild Joliba
Rolls his deep waters,
Sate, at their evening toil,
Afric's dark daughters:

Where the thick mangroves

Broad shadows were flinging,

Each o'er her lone loom

Bent mournfully singing:

"Alas! for the white man, o'er deserts a ranger, No more shall we welcome the white-bosom'd stranger!"

Through the deep forest
Fierce lions are prowling ;
'Mid thickets entangling
Hyena's are howling;
There should he wander,

Where danger lurks ever,

To his home, where the sun sets,

Return shall he never:

"Alas! for the white man, o'er deserts a ranger,

No more shall we welcome the white-bosom'd stranger!"