Slavery, a poem

O great deign! Ye Sons of Mercy! O complete your work; Wrench from Oppreion's hand the iron rod, And bid the cruel feel the pains they give. IF Heaven has into being deign'd to call Thy light, O Liberty! to hine on all; Bright intellectual Sun! why does thy ray To earth ditribute only partial day? Since no reiting caue from pirit flows Thy penetrating eence to oppoe; No obtacles by Nature's hand impret, Thy ubtle and ethereal beams arret; Nor motion's laws can peed thy active coure, Nor trong repulion's pow'rs obtruct thy force; Since there is no convexity in mind, Why are thy genial beams to parts confin'd? While the chill North with thy bright ray is blet, Why hould fell darknes half the South invet? Was it decreed, fair Freedom! at thy birth, That thou hou'd't ne'er irradiate all the earth? While Britain baks in thy full blaze of light, Why lies ad Afric quench'd in total night? Thee only, ober Goddes! I attet, In miles chatis'd, and decent graces dret. Not that unlicens'd monter of the crowd, Whoe roar terrific burts in peals o loud, Deaf'ning the ear of Peace: fierce Faction's tool; Of rah Sedition born, and mad Mirule; Whoe tubborn mouth, rejecting Reaon's rein, No trength can govern, and no kill retrain; Whoe magic cries the frantic vulgar draw To purn at Order, and to outrage Law; To tread on grave Authority and Pow'r, And hake the work of ages in an hour: Convuls'd her voice, and petilent her breath, She raves of mercy, while he deals out death: Each blat is fate; he darts from either hand Red conflagration o'er th' atonish'd land; Clamouring for peace, he rends the air with noie, And to reform a part, the whole detroys. O, plaintive Southerne! whoe impaion'd train So oft has wak'd my languid Mue in vain! Now, when congenial themes her cares engage, She burns to emulate thy glowing page; Her failing efforts mock her fond deires, She hares thy feelings, not partakes thy fires. Strange pow'r of ong! the train that warms the heart Seems the ame inpiration to impart; Touch'd by the kindling energy alone, We think the flame which melts us is our own; Deceiv'd, for genius we mitake delight, Charm'd as we read, we fancy we can write. Tho' not to me, weet Bard, thy pow'rs belong, Fair Truth, a hallow'd guide! inpires my ong. Here Art wou'd weave her gayet flow'rs in vain, For Truth the bright invention wou'd didain. For no fictitious ills thee numbers flow, But living anguih, and ubtantial woe; No individual griefs my boom melt, For millions feel what Oronoko felt: Fir'd by no ingle wrongs, the countles hot I mourn, by rapine dragg'd from Afric's coat. Perih th' illiberal thought which wou'd debae The native genius of the able race! Perih the proud philoophy, which ought To rob them of the pow'rs of equal thought! Does then th' immortal principle within Change with the caual colour of a kin? Does matter govern pirit? or is mind Degraded by the form to which 'tis join'd? No: they have heads to think, and hearts to feel, And ouls to act, with firm, tho' erring zeal; For they have keen affections, kind deires, Love trong as death, and active patriot fires; All the rude energy, the fervid flame, Of high-oul'd paion, and ingenuous hame: Strong, but luxuriant virtues boldly hoot From the wild vigour of a avage root. Nor weak their ene of honour's proud control, For pride is virtue in a Pagan oul; A ene of worth, a concience of deert, A high, unbroken haughtines of heart; That elf-ame tuff which ert proud empires way'd, Of which the conquerors of the world were made. Capricious fate of man! that very pride In Afric courg'd, in Rome was deify'd. No Mue, O Qua-hi! hall thy deeds relate, No tatue natch thee from oblivious fate! For thou wat born where never gentle Mue On Valour's grave the flow'rs of Genius trews; And thou wat born where no recording page Plucks the fair deed from Time's devouring rage. Had Fortune plac'd thee on ome happier coat, Where polih'd ouls heroic virtue boat, To thee, who ought't a voluntary grave, Th' uninjur'd honours of thy name to ave, Whoe generous arm thy barbarous Mater par'd, Altars had mok'd, and temples had been rear'd. Whene'er to Afric's hores I turn my eyes, Horrors of deepet, deadliet guilt arie; I ee, by more than Fancy's mirror hewn, The burning village, and the blazing town: See the dire victim torn from ocial life, The hrieking babe, the agonizing wife! She, wretch forlorn! is dragg'd by hotile hands, To ditant tyrants old, in ditant lands! Tranmitted mieries, and ucceive chains, The ole ad heritage her child obtains! Ev'n this lat wretched boon their foes deny, To weep together, or together die. By felon hands, by one relentles troke, See the fond links of feeling Nature broke! The fibres twiting round a parent's heart, Torn from their grap, and bleeding as they part. Hold, murderers, hold! nor aggravate ditres; Repect the paions you yourelves poes; Ev'n you, of ruffian heart, and ruthles hand, Love your own offspring, love your native land. Ah! leave them holy Freedom's cheering mile, The heav'n-taught fondnes for the parent oil; Revere affections mingled with our frame, In every nature, every clime the ame; In all, thee feelings equal way maintain; In all the love of Home and Freedom reign: And Tempe's vale, and parch'd Angola's and, One equal fondnes of their ons command. Th' unconquer'd Savage laughs at pain and toil, Baking in Freedom's beams which gild his native oil. Does thirt of empire, does deire of fame, (For thee are pecious crimes) our rage inflame? No: ordid lut of gold their fate controls, The baet appetite of baet ouls; Gold, better gain'd, by what their ripening ky, Their fertile fields, their arts and mines upply. What wrongs, what injuries does Oppreion plead To mooth the horror of th' unnatural deed? What trange offence, what aggravated in? They tand convicted—of a darker kin! Barbarians, hold! th' opprobrious commerce pare, Repect his acred image which they bear: Tho' dark and avage, ignorant and blind, They claim the common privilege of kind; Let Malice trip them of each other plea, They till are men, and men hou'd till be free. Inulted Reaon loaths th' inverted trade— Dire change! the agent is the purchae made! Perplex'd, the baffled Mue involves the tale; Nature confounded, well may language fail! The outrag'd Goddes with abhorrent eyes Sees Man the traffic, Souls the merchandize! Plead not, in reaon's palpable abue, Their ene of feeling callous and obtue: From heads to hearts lies Nature's plain appeal, Tho' few can reaon, all mankind can feel. Tho' wit may boat a livelier dread of hame, A loftier ene of wrong refinement claim; Tho' polih'd manners may freh wants invent, And nice ditinctions nicer ouls torment; Tho' thee on finer pirits heavier fall, Yet natural evils are the ame to all. Tho' wounds there are which reaon's force may heal, There needs no logic ure to make us feel. The nerve, howe'er untutor'd, can utain A harp, unutterable ene of pain; As exquiitely fahion'd in a lave, As where unequal fate a ceptre gave. Sene is as keen where Congo's ons preide, As where proud Tiber rolls his claic tide. Rhetoric or vere may point the feeling line, They do not whet enation, but define. Did ever lave les feel the galling chain, When Zeno prov'd there was no ill in pain? Their mieries philoophic quirks deride, Slaves groan in pangs diown'd by Stoic pride. When the fierce Sun darts vertical his beams, And thirt and hunger mix their wild extremes; When the harp iron wounds his inmot oul, And his train'd eyes in burning anguih roll; Will the parch'd negro find, ere he expire, No pain in hunger, and no heat in fire? For him, when fate his tortur'd frame detroys, What hope of preent fame, or future joys? For this, have heroes horten'd nature's date; For that, have martyrs gladly met their fate; But him, forlorn, no hero's pride utains, No martyr's blisful viions ooth his pains; Sullen, he mingles with his kindred dut, For he has learn'd to dread the Chritian's trut; To him what mercy can that Pow'r diplay, Whoe ervants murder, and whoe ons betray? Savage! thy venial error I deplore, They are not Chritians who infet thy hore. O thou ad pirit, whoe prepoterous yoke The great deliverer Death, at length, has broke! Releas'd from miery, and ecap'd from care, Go, meet that mercy man deny'd thee here. In thy dark home, ure refuge of th' oppres'd, The wicked vex not, and the weary ret. And, if ome notions, vague and undefin'd, Of future terrors have aail'd thy mind; If uch thy maters have preum'd to teach, As terrors only they are prone to preach; (For hou'd they paint eternal Mercy's reign, Where were th' oppreor's rod, the captive's chain?) If, then, thy troubled oul has learn'd to dread The dark unknown thy trembling footteps tread; On Him, who made thee what thou art, depend; He, who withholds the means, accepts the end. Not thine the reckoning dire of Light abus'd, Knowledge digrac'd, and Liberty mius'd, On thee no awful judge incens'd hall it For parts perverted, and dihonour'd wit. Where ignorance will be found the uret plea, How many learn'd and wie hall envy thee! And thou, White Savage! whether lut of gold, Or lut of conquet, rule thee uncontrol'd! Hero, or robber!—by whatever name Thou plead thy impious claim to wealth or fame; Whether inferior michiefs be thy boat, A petty tyrant rifling Gambia's coat Or bolder carnage track thy crimon way, Kings dipoes'd, and Provinces thy prey; Panting to tame wide earth's remotet bound; All Cortez murder'd, all Columbus found; O'er plunder'd realms to reign, deteted Lord, Make millions wretched, and thyelf abhorr'd;— In Reaon's eye, in Widom's fair account, Your um of glory boats a like amount; The means may differ, but the end's the ame; Conquet is pillage with a nobler name. Who makes the um of human bleings les, Or inks the tock of general happines, No olid fame hall grace, no true renown, His life hall blazon, or his memory crown. Had thoe advent'rous pirits who explore Thro' ocean's trackles wates, the far-ought hore; Whether of wealth inatiate, or of pow'r, Conquerors who wate, or ruffians who devour: Had thee poes'd, O Cook! thy gentle mind, Thy love of arts, thy love of humankind, Had thee purued thy mild and liberal plan, Discoverers had not been a cure to man! Then, bles'd Philanthropy! thy ocial hands Had link'd diever'd worlds in brothers bands; Careles, if colour, or if clime divide; Then, lov'd, and loving, man had liv'd, and died. The puret wreaths which hang on glory's hrine, For empires founded, peaceful Penn! are thine; No blood-tain'd laurels crown'd thy virtuous toil, No laughter'd natives drench'd thy fair-earn'd oil, Still thy meek pirit in thy flock urvives, Conitent till, their doctrines rule their lives; Thy followers only have effac'd the hame Incrib'd by Slavery on the Chritian name. Shall Britain, where the oul of Freedom reigns, Forge chains for others he herelf didains? Forbid it, Heaven! O let the nations know The liberty he loves he will betow; Not to herelf the glorious gift confin'd, She preads the bleing wide as humankind; And, corning narrow views of time and place, Bids all be free in earth's extended pace. What page of human annals can record A deed o bright as human rights retor'd? O may that god-like deed, that hining page, Redeem our fame, and conecrate our age! And ee, the cherub Mercy from above, Decending oftly, quits the phere of love! On feeling hearts he heds celetial dew, And breathes her pirit o'er th' enlighten'd few; From oul to oul the preading influence teals, Till every breat the oft contagion feels. She bears, exulting, to the burning hore The loveliet office Angel ever bore; To vindicate the pow'r in Heaven ador'd, To till the clank of chains, and heathe the word; To cheer the mourner, and with oothing hands From burting hearts unbind th' Oppreor's bands; To raie the lutre of the Chritian name, And clear the foulet blot that dims its fame. As the mild Spirit hovers o'er the coat, A freher hue the wither'd landcapes boat; Her healing miles the ruin'd cenes repair, And blated Nature wears a joyous air. She preads her blet commiion from above, Stamp'd with the acred characters of love; She tears the banner tain'd with blood and tears, And Liberty! thy hining tandard rears! As the bright enign's glory he diplays, See pale Oppression faints beneath the blaze! The giant dies! no more his frown appals, The chain untouch'd, drops off; the fetter falls. Atonih'd echo tells the vocal hore, Oppreion's fall'n, and Slavery is no more! The duky myriads crowd the ultry plain, And hail that mercy long invok'd in vain. Victorious Pow'r! he burts their two-fold bands, And Faith and Freedom pring from Mercy's hands.