"Thou, who, for noble faults like these, too cold, / Whose vices n'er aspire, but stoop to gold, / That groveling passion of the sordid breast, / Like Aaron's serpent swallowing up the rest."
— Pratt, Samuel Jackson [pseud. Courtney Melmoth] (1749-1814)
Whose sanction'd arts waste nations in an hour;
Whose mining frauds, more fatal still, destroy
Hope's tender blossom, and the fruits of joy;
Thou, to whom all the coward slights belong,
Thy heart too cruel for a generous wrong,
For fierce Revenge, that fever of the soul,
Hate that defies, and Love that spurns controul,
Or mad'ning Jealousy when Reason bends,
Or Zeal, extravagant to liberal ends,
Thou, who, for noble faults like these, too cold,
Whose vices n'er aspire, but stoop to gold,
That groveling passion of the sordid breast,
Like Aaron's serpent swallowing up the rest;
Theft, rapine, plunder, fraud, and murder, stand,
Fell ministers! to wait thy dire command.
Yes thou, the founder of this impious trade,
Mad'st him a slave, that nature never made,
Tore the poor Indian from his native soil,
And chain'd him down to never-ending toil.
Samuel Jackson Pratt, Humanity, or the Rights of Nature, a Poem; in Two Books. By the Author of Sympathy (London: T. Cadell, 1788). <Link to ESTC><Link to Google Books>
Added to Gleanings through Wales, Holland and Westphalia (1795, 1796, 1798, 1800).