NOTE. THE following passage from James Montgomery’s poem, “The West Indies,” published in 1810, was inspired by “Mungo Park’s Travels in the Interior of Africa.” It enshrines in English verse the beautiful incident of the negro woman’s song of “Charity” (on page 190 of the first of these two volumes), and closes with the poet’s blessing upon Mungo Park himself, who had sailed five years before upon the second journey, from which he had not returned, and whose fate did not become known until five years later. Man, through all ages of revolving time, Unchanging man, in every varying clime, Deems his own land of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o’er all the world beside; His home the spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. And is the Negro outlawed from his birth? Is he alone a stranger on the earth? Is there no shed whose peeping roof appears So lovely that it fills his eyes with tears? No land, whose name, in exile heard, will dart Ice through his veins and lightning through his heart? Ah! yes; beneath the beams of brighter skies His home amidst his father’s country lies; There with the partner of his soul he shares Love-mingled pleasures, love-divided cares; There, as with nature’s warmest filial fire, He soothes his blind and feeds his helpless sire; His children, sporting round his hut, behold How they shall cherish him when he is old, Trained by example from their tenderest youth To deeds of charity and words of truth. Is _he_ not blest? Behold, at closing day, The Negro village swarms abroad to play; He treads the dance, through all its rapturous rounds, To the wild music of barbarian sounds; Or, stretched at ease where broad palmettos shower Delicious coolness in his shadowy bower, He feasts on tales of witchcraft, that give birth To breathless wonder or ecstatic mirth: Yet most delighted when, in rudest rhymes, The minstrel wakes the song of elder times, When men were heroes, slaves to Beauty’s charms, And all the joys of life were love and arms. Is not the Negro blest? His generous soil With harvest plenty crowns his simple toil; More than his wants his flocks and fields afford: He loves to greet a stranger at his board: “The winds were roaring and the White Man fled; The rains of night descended on his head; The poor White Man sat down beneath our tree: Weary and faint and far from home was he: For him no mother fills with milk the bowl, No wife prepares the bread to cheer his soul. Pity the poor White Man, who sought our tree; No wife, no mother, and no home has he.” Thus sung the Negro’s daughters;—once again, O that the poor White Man might hear that strain! Whether the victim of the treacherous Moor, Or from the Negro’s hospitable door Spurned as a spy from Europe’s hateful clime,