On June the 7th, the committee met again for the despatch of business, when, among other things, they voted their thanks to Dr. Baker, of Lower Grosvenor-street, who had been one of my first assistants, for his services to the cause.
At this committee John Barton, one of the members of it, stated that he was commissioned by the author of a poem, entitled _The Wrongs of Africa_, to offer the profits which might arise from the sale of that work, to the committee, for the purpose of enabling them to pursue the object of their institution. This circumstance was not only agreeable, inasmuch as it showed us that there were others who felt with us for the injured Africans, and who were willing to aid us in our designs, but it was rendered still more so when we were given to understand that the poem was written by Mr. Roscoe, of Liverpool, and the preface to it by the late Dr. Currie, who then lived in the same place. To find friends to our cause rising up from a quarter where we expected scarcely anything but opposition, was very consolatory and encouraging. As this poem was well written, but cannot now be had, I shall give the introductory part of it, which is particularly beautiful, to the perusal of the reader. It begins thus:--
Offspring of Love divine, Humanity! To whom, his eldest born, th' Eternal gave Dominion o'er the heart; and taught to touch Its varied stops in sweetest unison; And strike the string that from a kindred breast Responsive vibrates! from the noisy haunts Of mercantile confusion, where thy voice Is heard not; from the meretricious glare Of crowded theatres, where in thy place Sits Sensibility, with wat'ry eye, Dropping o'er fancied woes her useless tear; Come thou, and weep with me substantial ills; And execrate the wrongs that Afric's sons, Torn from their natal shore, and doom'd to bear The yoke of servitude in foreign climes, Sustain. Nor vainly let our sorrows flow, Nor let the strong emotion rise in vain; But may the land contagion widely spread, Till in its flame the unrelenting heart Of avarice melt in softest sympathy-- And one bright blaze of universal love In grateful incense rises up to Heaven!
Form'd with the same capacity of pain, The same desire of pleasure and of ease, Why feels not man for man! When nature shrinks From the slight puncture of an insect's sting, Faints, if not screen'd from sultry suns, und pines Beneath the hardship of an hour's delay Of needful nutriment;--when liberty Is priz'd so dearly, that the slightest breath That ruffles but her mantle, can awake To arms unwarlike nations, and can rouse Confed'rate states to vindicate her claims:-- How shall the suff'rer man his fellow doom To ills he mourns and spurns at; tear with stripes His quiv'ring flesh; with hunger and with thirst Waste his emaciate frame; in ceaseless toils Exhaust his vital powers; and bind his limbs In galling chains? Shall he, whose fragile form Demands continual blessings to support Its complicated texture, air, and food, Raiment, alternate rest, and kindly skies, And healthful seasons, dare with impious voice To ask those mercies, whilst his selfish aim Arrests the general freedom of their course; And, gratified beyond his utmost wish, Debars another from the bounteous store?