ACROSTICS.

The dolorous cry, from far was heard How groaned poor Afric's sable sons. Our hearts with pity moved, we feared Much evil by the monster done. Ask ye his name? 'Tis slavery dire, So big with crime, so red with gore.

Could Christians feel his dreadful ire Oh how they'd wish he was no more. Would they not send to Heaven this prayer? Hear thou on high, O God of love; Ere time be long thine arm make bare. Rend him with judgment from above; Down from his seat hurl him to dwell.

Built round with walls of fire in hell. Raise thy strong arm and fix him deep. Add this: in anguish make him weep. Now hell, make room in thy domains, This dreadful foe will soon no more Firm bind poor slaves in galling chains, Or lash their backs till flows their gore. Remorseless still, he cares not for their fate, Doom speedy, therefore, should on him await.