Made Poetry A Mere Mechanic Art.

A Glory Gilds The Sacred Page, Majestic Like The Sun, It Gives A Light To Every Age, It Gives, But Borrows None.

Blest Be The Art That Can Immortalize.

I Pity Them Greatly, But I Must Be Mum, For How Could We Do Without Sugar And Rum?

Forced From Home, And All Its Pleasures, Afric Coast I Left Forlorn; To Increase A Stranger's Treasures, O The Raging Billows Borne. Men From England Bought And Sold Me, Paid My Price In Paltry Gold; But, Though Theirs They Have Enroll'd Me, Minds Are Never To Be Sold.

For 'tis A Truth Well Known To Most, That Whatsoever Thing Is Lost, We Seek It, Ere It Comes To Light, In Every Cranny But The Right.