 | The epic of Columbus' bell and other poems |  |
KING KOBBENA ELJEN.
That shakes the lance when war's alarm
Demands the brave,
Thus give, in one inglorious day,
Defeated in battle, the king of Gold Coast, West Africa, is captured and held for ransom. The price demanded is his kingdom. This the king refuses to sign away, and the British hold him a prisoner of war at Sierre Leone.—This poem was written on reading Bishop H. M. Turner's “Travels in Africa,” in the Christian Recorder, January 7, 1892. The following extract is from the Bishop's letter:—
“I have just had the honor of my life. King Kobbena Eljen, of the Kromantie tribe, a powerful tribe on the Gold Coast, who was captured in the late war with England, and who is here as a prisoner of war, called to pay his respects, through me, to his race, as he says, ‘over the sea.’ He means in America. I kissed his hands a dozen times, and would have kissed his feet had he not said, ‘No, no.’
“The king is 64 years old. He is tall, erect and majestic, and is deeply concerned about the colored people in America. He wanted to know when we were coming home.
“During the great Ashantee war, he was captured by the English army and England tried to get him to sign away his territory and his people's land. He refused to do it, and they brought him here to Sierre Leone as a prisoner, to be held until he signs away his kingdom. The king says he will die first. If he will sign the documents England will send him back at once in a man-of-war. The African kings and nobility will make me hate England, grand as Old England is in many respects. The king walks about town, but cannot leave. He is loyal to his race and to his people. He will give his kingdom to his children in the United States, but not to England.”
My realms to England's haughty sway,
As though a slave?
When conquered on the battle field
By foreign foe,
Who war at hell's inflaming call,
To plunge our bleeding nation all
In depths of woe?
Forced from my queen and native plains,
Along the strand!
Not though this bosom reek with blood,
And life come ebbing with the flood,
At thy demand!”
He strove the tender tear to hide,
That trickled down;
But with disdain aside he thrust
The scroll, which found ignoble dust,
And not renown.
He braved the buckra's shot and shell,
Infernal hate!
King, prince and nobles bled that day,
But fickle Fortune would not stay
The hand of Fate.
A captive on his native sands,
The golden spot;
The ransom asked, his kingdom whole,
But the proud purpose of his soul
Will humble not.
Of nuggets hid along the shore,
And more had told,
Would wade through blood to gain the place,
In quest of gold.
And, from its sheath, with swiftest flight,
Her sword pursues;
What vengeance must o'erwhelm them all!
The plunderers, who, in their fall,
Receive their dues!
| The epic of Columbus' bell and other poems | |