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SLAVERY.
Tho' wounds there are which reaſon's force may heal,
There needs no logic ſure to make us feel.
The nerve, howe'er untutor'd, can ſuſtain
A ſharp, unutterable ſenſe of pain; 160
As exquiſitely faſhion'd in a ſlave,
As where unequal fate a ſceptre gave.
Senſe is as keen where Congo's ſons preſide,
As where proud Tiber rolls his claſſic tide.
Rhetoric or verſe may point the feeling line, 165
They do not whet ſenſation, but define.
Did ever ſlave leſs feel the galling chain,
When Zeno prov'd there was no ill in pain?
Their miſeries philoſophic quirks deride,
Slaves groan in pangs diſown'd by Stoic pride. 170
When the fierce Sun darts vertical his beams,
And thirſt and hunger mix their wild extremes;
When
