Chapter 2

There are yet two other methods remaining, by which this traffic will probably be abolished. By the introduction of East-Indian or Maple Sugar, or by the just and general rebellion of the Negroes: by the vindictive justice of the Africans, or by the civilized Christians finding it their interest to be humane.

To these past and present prospects the following Poems occasionally allude: to the English custom of exciting wars upon the Slave Coast that they may purchase prisoners, and to the punishment sometimes inflicted upon a Negro for murder, of which Hector St. John was an eye-witness.

SONNET I

Hold your mad hands! for ever on your plain Must the gorged vulture clog his beak with blood? For ever must your Nigers tainted flood Roll to the ravenous shark his banquet slain? Hold your mad hands! what daemon prompts to rear The arm of Slaughter? on your savage shore Can hell-sprung Glory claim the feast of gore, With laurels water'd by the widow's tear Wreathing his helmet crown? lift high the spear! And like the desolating whirlwinds sweep, Plunge ye yon bark of anguish in the deep; For the pale fiend, cold-hearted Commerce there Breathes his gold-gender'd pestilence afar, And calls to share the prey his kindred Daemon War.

SONNET II

Why dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hair, And to the deaf sea pour thy frantic cries? Before the gale the laden vessel flies; The Heavens all-favoring smile, the breeze is fair; Hark to the clamors of the exulting crew! Hark how their thunders mock the patient skies! Why dost thou shriek and strain thy red-swoln eyes As the white sail dim lessens from thy view? Go pine in want and anguish and despair, There is no mercy found in human-kind-- Go Widow to thy grave and rest thee there! But may the God of Justice bid the wind Whelm that curst bark beneath the mountain wave, And bless with Liberty and Death the Slave!

SONNET III

Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops run Down his dark cheek; hold--hold thy merciless hand, Pale tyrant! for beneath thy hard command O'erwearied Nature sinks. The scorching Sun, As pityless as proud Prosperity, Darts on him his full beams; gasping he lies Arraigning with his looks the patient skies, While that inhuman trader lifts on high The mangling scourge. Oh ye who at your ease Sip the blood-sweeten'd beverage! thoughts like these Haply ye scorn: I thank thee Gracious God! That I do feel upon my cheek the glow Of indignation, when beneath the rod A sable brother writhes in silent woe.

SONNET IV

'Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep As undisturb'd as Justice! but no more The wretched Slave, as on his native shore, Rests on his reedy couch: he wakes to weep! Tho' thro' the toil and anguish of the day No tear escap'd him, not one suffering groan Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone In bitterness; thinking that far away Tho' the gay negroes join the midnight song, Tho' merriment resounds on Niger's shore, She whom he loves far from the chearful throng Stands sad, and gazes from her lowly door With dim grown eye, silent and woe-begone, And weeps for him who will return no more.

SONNET V

Did then the bold Slave rear at last the Sword Of Vengeance? drench'd he deep its thirsty blade In the cold bosom of his tyrant lord? Oh! who shall blame him? thro' the midnight shade Still o'er his tortur'd memory rush'd the thought Of every past delight; his native grove, Friendship's best joys, and Liberty and Love, All lost for ever! then Remembrance wrought His soul to madness; round his restless bed Freedom's pale spectre stalk'd, with a stern smile Pointing the wounds of slavery, the while She shook her chains and hung her sullen head: No more on Heaven he calls with fruitless breath, But sweetens with revenge, the draught of death.

SONNET VI

High in the air expos'd the Slave is hung To all the birds of Heaven, their living food! He groans not, tho' awaked by that fierce Sun New torturers live to drink their parent blood! He groans not, tho' the gorging Vulture tear The quivering fibre! hither gaze O ye Who tore this Man from Peace and Liberty! Gaze hither ye who weigh with scrupulous care The right and prudent; for beyond the grave There is another world! and call to mind, Ere your decrees proclaim to all mankind Murder is legalized, that there the Slave Before the Eternal, "thunder-tongued shall plead "Against the deep damnation of your deed."

TO THE GENIUS OF AFRICA

O thou who from the mountain's height Roll'st down thy clouds with all their weight Of waters to old Niles majestic tide; Or o'er the dark sepulchral plain Recallest thy Palmyra's ancient pride, Amid whose desolated domes Secure the savage chacal roams, Where from the fragments of the hallow'd fane The Arabs rear their miserable homes!

Hear Genius hear thy children's cry! Not always should'st thou love to brood Stern o'er the desert solitude Where seas of sand toss their hot surges high; Nor Genius should the midnight song Detain thee in some milder mood The palmy plains among Where Gambia to the torches light Flows radiant thro' the awaken'd night.

Ah, linger not to hear the song! Genius avenge thy children's wrong! The Daemon COMMERCE on your shore Pours all the horrors of his train, And hark! where from the field of gore Howls the hyena o'er the slain! Lo! where the flaming village fires the skies! Avenging Power awake--arise!

Arise thy children's wrong redress! Ah heed the mother's wretchedness When in the hot infectious air O'er her sick babe she bows opprest-- Ah hear her when the Christians tear The drooping infant from her breast! Whelm'd in the waters he shall rest! Hear thou the wretched mother's cries, Avenging Power awake! arise!

By the rank infected air That taints those dungeons of despair, By those who there imprison'd die Where the black herd promiscuous lie, By the scourges blacken'd o'er And stiff and hard with human gore, By every groan of deep distress By every curse of wretchedness, By all the train of Crimes that flow From the hopelessness of Woe, By every drop of blood bespilt, By Afric's wrongs and Europe's guilt, Awake! arise! avenge!

And thou hast heard! and o'er their blood-fed plains Swept thine avenging hurricanes; And bade thy storms with whirlwind roar Dash their proud navies on the shore; And where their armies claim'd the fight Wither'd the warrior's might; And o'er the unholy host with baneful breath There Genius thou hast breath'd the gales of Death.

So perish still the robbers of mankind! What tho' from Justice bound and blind Inhuman Power has snatch'd the sword! What tho' thro' many an ignominious age That Fiend with desolating rage The tide of carnage pour'd! Justice shall yet unclose her eyes, Terrific yet in wrath arise, And trample on the tyrant's breast, And make Oppresion groan opprest.

To my own MINIATURE PICTURE taken at two years of age.

And I was once like this! that glowing cheek Was mine, those pleasure-sparkling eyes, that brow Smooth as the level lake, when not a breeze Dies o'er the sleeping surface! twenty years Have wrought strange alteration! Of the friends Who once so dearly prized this miniature, And loved it for its likeness, some are gone To their last home; and some, estranged in heart, Beholding me with quick-averted glance Pass on the other side! But still these hues Remain unalter'd, and these features wear The look of Infancy and Innocence. I search myself in vain, and find no trace Of what I was: those lightly-arching lines Dark and o'erhanging now; and that mild face Settled in these strong lineaments!--There were Who form'd high hopes and flattering ones of thee Young Robert! for thine eye was quick to speak Each opening feeling: should they not have known When the rich rainbow on the morning cloud Reflects its radiant dies, the husbandman Beholds the ominous glory sad, and fears Impending storms? they augur'd happily, For thou didst love each wild and wonderous tale Of faery fiction, and thine infant tongue Lisp'd with delight the godlike deeds of Greece And rising Rome; therefore they deem'd forsooth That thou shouldst tread PREFERMENT'S pleasant path. Ill-judging ones! they let thy little feet Stray in the pleasant paths of POESY, And when thou shouldst have prest amid the crowd There didst thou love to linger out the day Loitering beneath the laurels barren shade. SPIRIT of SPENSER! was the wanderer wrong? This little picture was for ornament Design'd, to shine amid the motley mob Of Fashion and of Folly,--is it not More honour'd by this solitary song?

THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL

What! and not one to heave the pious sigh! Not one whose sorrow-swoln and aching eye For social scenes, for life's endearments fled, Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the dead! Poor wretched Outcast! I will weep for thee, And sorrow for forlorn humanity. Yes I will weep, but not that thou art come To the stern Sabbath of the silent tomb: For squalid Want, and the black scorpion Care, Heart-withering fiends! shall never enter there. I sorrow for the ills thy life has known As thro' the world's long pilgrimage, alone, Haunted by Poverty and woe-begone, Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on: Thy youth in ignorance and labour past, And thine old age all barrenness and blast! Hard was thy Fate, which, while it doom'd to woe, Denied thee wisdom to support the blow; And robb'd of all its energy thy mind, Ere yet it cast thee on thy fellow-kind, Abject of thought, the victim of distress, To wander in the world's wide wilderness.

Poor Outcast sleep in peace! the wintry storm Blows bleak no more on thine unshelter'd form; Thy woes are past; thou restest in the tomb;-- I pause--and ponder on the days to come.

ODE

written on the first of January, 1794

Come melancholy Moralizer--come! Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath; With me engarland now The SEPULCHRE OF TIME!

Come Moralizer to the funeral song! I pour the dirge of the Departed Days, For well the funeral song Befits this solemn hour.

But hark! even now the merry bells ring round With clamorous joy to welcome in this day, This consecrated day, To Mirth and Indolence.

Mortal! whilst Fortune with benignant hand Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness, Whilst her unclouded sun Illumes thy summer day,

Canst thou rejoice--rejoice that Time flies fast? That Night shall shadow soon thy summer sun? That swift the stream of Years Rolls to Eternity?

If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish, If Power be thine, remember what thou art-- Remember thou art Man, And Death thine heritage!

Hast thou known Love? does Beauty's better sun Cheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile, Her eye all eloquence, Her voice all harmony?

Oh state of happiness! hark how the gale Moans deep and hollow o'er the leafless grove! Winter is dark and cold-- Where now the charms of Spring?

Sayst thou that Fancy paints the future scene In hues too sombrous? that the dark-stol'd Maid With stern and frowning front Appals the shuddering soul?

And would'st thou bid me court her faery form When, as she sports her in some happier mood, Her many-colour'd robes Dance varying to the Sun?

Ah vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road Leads o'er the barren mountain's storm-vext height, With anxious gaze survey The fruitful far-off vale.

Oh there are those who love the pensive song To whom all sounds of Mirth are dissonant! There are who at this hour Will love to contemplate!

For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time, Rejoicing when the fading orb of day Is sunk again in night, That one day more is gone.

And he who bears Affliction's heavy load With patient piety, well pleas'd he knows The World a pilgrimage, The Grave the inn of rest.

Inscriptions

The three Utilitise of Poetry: the praise of Virtue and Goodness, the Memory of things remarkable, and to invigorate the affections.

Welsh Triad.

INSCRIPTION I.

For a TABLET at GODSTOW NUNNERY.

Here Stranger rest thee! from the neighbouring towers Of Oxford, haply thou hast forced thy bark Up this strong stream, whose broken waters here Send pleasant murmurs to the listening sense: Rest thee beneath this hazel; its green boughs Afford a grateful shade, and to the eye Fair is its fruit: Stranger! the seemly fruit Is worthless, all[1] is hollowness within, For on the grave of ROSAMUND it grows! Young lovely and beloved she fell seduced, And here retir'd to wear her wretched age In earnest prayer and bitter penitence, Despis'd and self-despising: think of her Young Man! and learn to reverence Womankind!

[Footnote 1: I have often seen this hazel: its nuts are apparently very fine, but always without a kernel.]

INSCRIPTION II.

For a COLUMN at NEWBURY.

Art thou a Patriot Traveller? on this field Did FALKLAND fall the blameless and the brave Beneath a Tyrant's banners: dost thou boast Of loyal ardor? HAMBDEN perish'd here, The rebel HAMBDEN, at whose glorious name The heart of every honest Englishman Beats high with conscious pride. Both uncorrupt, Friends to their common country both, they fought, They died in adverse armies. Traveller! If with thy neighbour thou should'st not accord, In charity remember these good men, And quell each angry and injurious thought.

INSCRIPTION III.

For a CAVERN that overlooks the River AVON.

Enter this cavern Stranger! the ascent Is long and steep and toilsome; here awhile Thou mayest repose thee, from the noontide heat O'ercanopied by this arch'd rock that strikes A grateful coolness: clasping its rough arms Round the rude portal, the old ivy hangs Its dark green branches down, and the wild Bees, O'er its grey blossoms murmuring ceaseless, make Most pleasant melody. No common spot Receives thee, for the Power who prompts the song, Loves this secluded haunt. The tide below Scarce sends the sound of waters to thine ear; And this high-hanging forest to the wind Varies its many hues. Gaze Stranger here! And let thy soften'd heart intensely feel How good, how lovely, Nature! When from hence Departing to the City's crouded streets, Thy sickening eye at every step revolts From scenes of vice and wretchedness; reflect That Man creates the evil he endures.

INSCRIPTION IV.

For the Apartment in CHEPSTOW-CASTLE where HENRY MARTEN the Regicide was imprisoned Thirty Years.

For thirty years secluded from mankind, Here Marten linger'd. Often have these walls Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread He paced around his prison: not to him Did Nature's fair varieties exist; He never saw the Sun's delightful beams, Save when thro' yon high bars it pour'd a sad And broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crime? He had rebell'd against the King, and sat In judgment on him; for his ardent mind Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth, And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! But such As PLATO lov'd; such as with holy zeal Our MILTON worshipp'd. Blessed hopes! awhile From man withheld, even to the latter days, When CHRIST shall come and all things be fulfill'd.

INSCRIPTION V.

For a MONUMENT at SILBURY-HILL.

This mound in some remote and dateless day Rear'd o'er a Chieftain of the Age [1] of Hills, May here detain thee Traveller! from thy road Not idly lingering. In his narrow house Some Warrior sleeps below: his gallant deeds Haply at many a solemn festival The Bard has harp'd, but perish'd is the song Of praise, as o'er these bleak and barren downs The wind that passes and is heard no more. Go Traveller on thy way, and contemplate Glory's brief pageant, and remember then That one good deed was never wrought in vain.

[Footnote 1: The Northern Nations distinguished the two periods when the bodies of the dead were consumed by fire, and when they were buried beneath the tumuli so common in this country, by the Age of Fire and the Age of Hills.]

INSCRIPTION VI.

For a MONUMENT in the NEW FOREST.

This is the place where William's kingly power Did from their poor and peaceful homes expel, Unfriended, desolate, and shelterless, The habitants of all the fertile track Far as these wilds extend. He levell'd down Their little cottages, he bade their fields Lie barren, so that o'er the forest waste He might most royally pursue his sports! If that thine heart be human, Passenger! Sure it will swell within thee, and thy lips Will mutter curses on him. Think thou then What cities flame, what hosts unsepulchred Pollute the passing wind, when raging Power Drives on his blood-hounds to the chase of Man; And as thy thoughts anticipate that day When God shall judge aright, in charity Pray for the wicked rulers of mankind.

INSCRIPTION VII.

For a TABLET on the Banks of a Stream.

Stranger! awhile upon this mossy bank Recline thee. If the Sun rides high, the breeze, That loves to ripple o'er the rivulet, Will play around thy brow, and the cool sound Of running waters soothe thee. Mark how clear It sparkles o'er the shallows, and behold Where o'er its surface wheels with restless speed Yon glossy insect, on the sand below How the swift shadow flies. The stream is pure In solitude, and many a healthful herb Bends o'er its course and drinks the vital wave: But passing on amid the haunts of man, It finds pollution there, and rolls from thence A tainted tide. Seek'st thou for HAPPINESS? Go Stranger, sojourn in the woodland cot Of INNOCENCE, and thou shalt find her there.

INSCRIPTION VIII.

For the CENOTAPH at ERMENONVILLE.

STRANGER! the MAN OF NATURE lies not here: Enshrin'd far distant by his [1] rival's side His relics rest, there by the giddy throng With blind idolatry alike revered! Wiselier directed have thy pilgrim feet Explor'd the scenes of Ermenonville. ROUSSEAU Loved these calm haunts of Solitude and Peace; Here he has heard the murmurs of the stream, And the soft rustling of the poplar grove, When o'er their bending boughs the passing wind Swept a grey shade. Here if thy breast be full, If in thine eye the tear devout should gush, His SPIRIT shall behold thee, to thine home From hence returning, purified of heart.

[Footnote 1: Voltaire.]

Birth-Day Odes.

O my faithful Friend! O early chosen, ever found the same, And trusted and beloved! once more the verse Long destin'd, always obvious to thine ear, Attend indulgent.

AKENSIDE.

BIRTH-DAY ODE, 1793.

Small is the new-born plant scarce seen Amid the soft encircling green, Where yonder budding acorn rears, Just o'er the waving grass, its tender head: Slow pass along the train of years, And on the growing plant, their dews and showers they shed. Anon it rears aloft its giant form, And spreads its broad-brown arms to meet the storm. Beneath its boughs far shadowing o'er the plain, From summer suns, repair the grateful village train.

Nor BEDFORD will my friend survey The book of Nature with unheeding eye; For never beams the rising orb of day, For never dimly dies the refluent ray, But as the moralizer marks the sky, He broods with strange delight upon futurity.

And we must muse my friend! maturer years Arise, and other Hopes and other Fears, For we have past the pleasant plains of Youth. Oh pleasant plains! that we might stray For ever o'er your faery ground-- For ever roam your vales around, Nor onward tempt the dangerous way-- For oh--what numerous foes assail The Traveller, from that chearful vale!

With toil and heaviness opprest Seek not the flowery bank for rest, Tho' there the bowering woodbine spread Its fragrant shelter o'er thy head, Tho' Zephyr there should linger long To hear the sky-lark's wildly-warbled song, There heedless Youth shalt thou awake The vengeance of the coiling snake!

Tho' fairly smiles the vernal mead To tempt thy pilgrim feet, proceed Hold on thy steady course aright, Else shalt thou wandering o'er the pathless plain, When damp and dark descends the night Shivering and shelterless, repent in vain.

And yet--tho' Dangers lurk on every side Receive not WORLDLY WISDOM for thy guide! Beneath his care thou wilt not know The throb of unavailing woe, No tear shall tremble in thine eye Thy breast shall struggle with no sigh, He will security impart, But he will apathize thy heart!

Ah no! Fly Fly that fatal foe, Virtue shall shrink from his torpedo grasp-- For not more fatal thro' the Wretches veins Benumb'd in Death's cold pains Creeps the chill poison of the deadly asp.

Serener joys my friend await Maturer manhood's steady state. The wild brook bursting from its source Meanders on its early course, Delighting there with winding way Amid the vernal vale to stray, Emerging thence more widely spread It foams along its craggy bed, And shatter'd with the mighty shock Rushes from the giddy rock-- Hurl'd headlong o'er the dangerous steep On runs the current to the deep, And gathering waters as it goes Serene and calm the river flows, Diffuses plenty o'er the smiling coast, Rolls on its stately waves and is in ocean lost.

BIRTH-DAY ODE, 1796.

And wouldst thou seek the low abode Where PEACE delights to dwell? Pause Traveller on thy way of life! With many a snare and peril rife Is that long labyrinth of road: Dark is the vale of years before Pause Traveller on thy way! Nor dare the dangerous path explore Till old EXPERIENCE comes to lend his leading ray.

Not he who comes with lanthorn light Shall guide thy groping pace aright With faltering feet and slow; No! let him rear the torch on high And every maze shall meet thine eye, And every snare and every foe; Then with steady step and strong, Traveller, shalt thou march along.

Tho' POWER invite thee to her hall, Regard not thou her tempting call Her splendors meteor glare; Tho' courteous Flattery there await And Wealth adorn the dome of State, There stalks the midnight spectre CARE; PEACE, Traveller! does not sojourn there.

If FAME allure thee, climb not thou To that steep mountain's craggy brow Where stands her stately pile; For far from thence does PEACE abide, And thou shall find FAME'S favouring smile Cold as the feeble Sun on Heclas snow-clad side,

And Traveller! as thou hopest to find That low and loved abode, Retire thee from the thronging road And shun the mob of human kind. Ah I hear how old EXPERIENCE schools, "Fly fly the crowd of Knaves and Fools "And thou shalt fly from woe; "The one thy heedless heart will greet "With Judas smile, and thou wilt meet "In every Fool a Foe!"

So safely mayest thou pass from these, And reach secure the home of PEACE, And FRIENDSHIP find thee there. No happier state can mortal know, No happier lot can Earth bestow If LOVE thy lot shall share. Yet still CONTENT with him may dwell Whom HYMEN will not bless, And VIRTUE sojourn in the cell Of HERMIT HAPPINESS.

BOTANY BAY

Eclogues

Where a sight shall shuddering Sorrow find. Sad as the ruins of the human mind!

BOWLES.