| |
| SEE 1 how the black ship cleaves the main, | |
| High bounding o’er the dark blue wave, | |
| Remurmuring with the groans of pain, | |
| Deep freighted with the princely slave! | |
| |
| Did all the gods of Afric sleep, | 5 |
| Forgetful of their guardian love, | |
| When the white tyrants of the deep, | |
| Betrayed him in the palmy grove. | |
| |
| A chief of Gambia’s golden shore, | |
| Whose arm the band of warriors led, | 10 |
| Or more—the lord of generous power, | |
| By whom the foodless poor were fed. | |
| |
| Does not the voice of reason cry, | |
| “Claim the first right that nature gave, | |
| From the red scourge of bondage fly, | 15 |
| Nor deign to live a burden’d slave.” | |
| |
| Has not his suffering offspring clung, | |
| Desponding round his fetter’d knee; | |
| On his worn shoulder, weeping hung, | |
| And urged one effort to be free? | 20 |
| |
| His wife by nameless wrongs subdued, | |
| His bosom’s friend to death resign’d; | |
| The flinty path-way drench’d in blood; | |
| He saw with cold and frenzied mind. | |
| |
| Strong in despair, then sought the plain, | 25 |
| To heaven was raised his steadfast eye, | |
| Resolved to burst the crushing chain, | |
| Or ’mid the battle’s blast to die. | |
| |
| First of his race, he led the band, | |
| Guardless of danger, hurling round, | 30 |
| Till by his red avenging hand, | |
| Full many a despot stain’d the ground. | |
| |
| When erst Messenia’s sons oppress’d, | |
| Flew desperate to the sanguine field, | |
| With iron clothed each injured breast, | 35 |
| And saw the cruel Spartan yield, | |
| |
| Did not the soul to heaven allied, | |
| With the proud heart as greatly swell, | |
| As when the Roman Decius died, | |
| Or when the Grecian victim fell? | 40 |
| |
| Do later deeds quick rapture raise, | |
| The boon Batavia’s William won, | |
| Paoli’s time-enduring praise, | |
| Or the yet greater Washington! | |
| |
| If these exalt thy sacred zeal, | 45 |
| To hate oppression’s mad control, | |
| For bleeding Afric learn to feel, | |
| Whose chieftain claim’d a kindred soul. | |
| |
| Ah, mourn the last disastrous hour, | |
| Lift the full eye of bootless grief, | 50 |
| While victory treads the sultry shore, | |
| And tears from hope the captive chief; | |
| |
| While the hard race of pallid hue, | |
| Unpractised in the power to feel, | |
| Resign him to the murderous crew, | 55 |
| The horrors of the quivering wheel. | |
| |
| Let sorrow bathe each blushing cheek, | |
| Bend piteous o’er the tortured slave, | |
| Whose wrongs compassion cannot speak, | |
| Whose only refuge was the grave. | 60 |
