Cowper! to thee, whose comprehensive mind Looks nature through, whose animated lyre, By plastic genius to thy hands consign'd, No vulgar thoughts, no vulgar strains inspire, My thanks sincere I pay — not that thy muse, Borne on maonian wing, has dar'd to soar— Not that thy vivid fancy-fashion'd views Breathe the rich spirit of poetic lore, But that fair freedom's self the theme supplies, O'erlooks thy labours, and thy work refines, Bids thee lament the trade where mercy dies, And coward justice all his rights resigns. Oh! when will Britain hear her awful voice, Oh! when shall Afric's sons rejoice!
