The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow |
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THE SLAVE. |
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 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
153
THE SLAVE.
Ye may tell of the gladness that wakes with the Spring,
When green-wood and welkin with melody ring;
When, strength in his pinion, and joy in his lay,
The lark flutters up in the face of the day;
When young bud and blossom are bursting to light,
And fields in their emerald freshness are bright:—
What boots this exulting o'er hill, field, and wave?—
Alas! it is lost to the ear of the Slave!
When green-wood and welkin with melody ring;
When, strength in his pinion, and joy in his lay,
The lark flutters up in the face of the day;
When young bud and blossom are bursting to light,
And fields in their emerald freshness are bright:—
What boots this exulting o'er hill, field, and wave?—
Alas! it is lost to the ear of the Slave!
Ye may tell of the glories of Summer-born June,
Of the pride of its morning, the pomp of its noon;
Of its beauty of sunset, ere Night hath unfurled
His star-coloured veil o'er the face of the world;
When the breezes are sweet with the kisses of flowers,
Those odorous gems of the meadows and bowers:—
But the sweat-drops of toil his wan forehead that lave,
Embitter and darken these charms to the Slave.
Of the pride of its morning, the pomp of its noon;
Of its beauty of sunset, ere Night hath unfurled
His star-coloured veil o'er the face of the world;
When the breezes are sweet with the kisses of flowers,
Those odorous gems of the meadows and bowers:—
But the sweat-drops of toil his wan forehead that lave,
Embitter and darken these charms to the Slave.
Ye may tell of the treasures of Autumn's domain,
When fertile abundance enriches the plain;
When the warm blushing orchard begins to unfold
Its various fruitage of purple and gold;
When the song of the reaper grows loud in its mirth,
And the drones of the world claim the gifts of the earth;
Though his toil may deserve them, his poverty crave,
How few are bestowed on the comfortless Slave!
When fertile abundance enriches the plain;
When the warm blushing orchard begins to unfold
Its various fruitage of purple and gold;
When the song of the reaper grows loud in its mirth,
And the drones of the world claim the gifts of the earth;
154
How few are bestowed on the comfortless Slave!
Ye may tell of the vigour that Winter sends forth,
On the health-bearing wings of the boisterous North,
When ye sit by the dear social hearth and its fire,
Shut in from the storm in its pitiless ire;
When dainty profusion encumbers the board,—
When ye feel the enjoyments that riches afford,—
Oh! think, when the turbulent elements rave,
How dreary and sad is the home of the Slave!
On the health-bearing wings of the boisterous North,
When ye sit by the dear social hearth and its fire,
Shut in from the storm in its pitiless ire;
When dainty profusion encumbers the board,—
When ye feel the enjoyments that riches afford,—
Oh! think, when the turbulent elements rave,
How dreary and sad is the home of the Slave!
Ye may tell us that Knowledge hath shed on our isle
The glow of her pure and encouraging smile;
That all may sit down to the banquet, and share
The mental provision untaxed as the air;
But where shall the children of Poverty find
One hour to enlighten or solace the mind?
Farewell to the splendour that circles the knave,
When knowledge and truth are revealed to the Slave!
The glow of her pure and encouraging smile;
That all may sit down to the banquet, and share
The mental provision untaxed as the air;
But where shall the children of Poverty find
One hour to enlighten or solace the mind?
Farewell to the splendour that circles the knave,
When knowledge and truth are revealed to the Slave!
Ye may say there's a spirit of freedom in all,
Throughout the vast realm of this wonderful ball:—
In the gush of the stream and the fountain 'tis heard,
In the sigh of the gale, in the song of the bird;
'Tis seen in the sun-cloud's ethereal sweep,—
'Tis known in the womb of the fathomless deep:
It lives in the cloud, in the gale, in the wave—
Oh, why is it kept from the labouring Slave!
Throughout the vast realm of this wonderful ball:—
In the gush of the stream and the fountain 'tis heard,
In the sigh of the gale, in the song of the bird;
'Tis seen in the sun-cloud's ethereal sweep,—
'Tis known in the womb of the fathomless deep:
It lives in the cloud, in the gale, in the wave—
Oh, why is it kept from the labouring Slave!
Must we bear with those dens of pollution that stand
Dark, frequent, and full o'er the once pleasant land,—
Those temples of Bacchus, where thousands are slain
By the poisonous cup at the altar of gain;—
Where the mind of the man is degraded and tame,
Where the cheek of the maiden grows callous to shame;
Let them cease to destroy—let them cease to deprave,
Let us blot out the name of the Drunkard and Slave!
Dark, frequent, and full o'er the once pleasant land,—
Those temples of Bacchus, where thousands are slain
By the poisonous cup at the altar of gain;—
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Where the cheek of the maiden grows callous to shame;
Let them cease to destroy—let them cease to deprave,
Let us blot out the name of the Drunkard and Slave!
Go, watch the poor human automaton rise
With a load at his heart, and reproach in his eyes,
The victim of poverty, vice, and disease;—
How haggard his visage! how feeble his knees!
When hunger hath made its most urgent appeal,
For labour incessant—how scanty the meal!
He hath but one hope and that hope is the grave,
For life is a source of despair to the Slave!
With a load at his heart, and reproach in his eyes,
The victim of poverty, vice, and disease;—
How haggard his visage! how feeble his knees!
When hunger hath made its most urgent appeal,
For labour incessant—how scanty the meal!
He hath but one hope and that hope is the grave,
For life is a source of despair to the Slave!
Oh! merciful God of the poor and oppressed,
Who hath promised the sick and the weary one rest—
Look down on the thousands whose sweat has been spilt
To nurse the oppressor in grandeur and guilt!
Oh! let not the proud, the unpitying few,
The many—the broken in spirit—subdue!
Let the words of the gifted, the good, and the brave,
Ring out in behalf of the soul-stricken Slave!
Who hath promised the sick and the weary one rest—
Look down on the thousands whose sweat has been spilt
To nurse the oppressor in grandeur and guilt!
Oh! let not the proud, the unpitying few,
The many—the broken in spirit—subdue!
Let the words of the gifted, the good, and the brave,
Ring out in behalf of the soul-stricken Slave!
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |