 | Hagar |  |
191
LAMENT OF TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE,
In the Dungeon of Besancon.
The light of morn has come, once more
It pierceth thro' the dungeon's gloom,
And resteth on the cold damp floor;
O blessed light! tho' in a living tomb
I hail thee! tho' thou bringest to me,
Another day of woe and misery;
Tho' Hope, angelic Hope, no more,
May shake from off her drooping wings,
The dew-drops of the night and soar
To meet thee: fount! from whence all springs,
Of bright and beautiful in this world of ours;—
The waving trees, the mellow fruits, the flowers,
And more, far more of glorious things than these;
But what are they all now to me?
My own bright isle! my home beyond the seas!
All, all have fled, and left me only thee,
Thou blessed Light! would I could once more feel;
The warm free breezes o'er my senses steal;
Methinks 'twould melt, ay, melt away
The icy weight, which day by day,
Has rested on my spirit, till the gloom
And dampness of the dungeon, like a tomb
Seem closing round me. Oh! the agony,
The restless longing, craving to be free:
Free as the mountain peaks, which rise
Upward, still upward to the clear cold skies;
Free and unfettered, as the Southern breeze,
Which wafts strange music thro' the orange trees
Of my own bright land! Oh! but to tread once more,
To feel upon my own loved mountains,
To see the soft blue heavens bending o'er
Me, and the silvery fountains
Gushing and sparkling at my feet.
Oh! but again to greet
Their cooling freshness, and to lave
My fever'd brain in the bright wave.
To feel that they once more were near,
They, the beloved; where are they now?
Wife of my bosom! and ye children dear!
Alas! I feel upon my burning brow
The last fond kiss—that it should be the last;—
Like shipwreck'd mariners, to a quivering mast,
To me you clung, hopeless in your despair;
I see you now, all pale and tearful there,
Breathing the last adieu; it cannot be;
'Twas not the last, I will be free!
It pierceth thro' the dungeon's gloom,
And resteth on the cold damp floor;
O blessed light! tho' in a living tomb
I hail thee! tho' thou bringest to me,
Another day of woe and misery;
Tho' Hope, angelic Hope, no more,
May shake from off her drooping wings,
The dew-drops of the night and soar
To meet thee: fount! from whence all springs,
Of bright and beautiful in this world of ours;—
192
And more, far more of glorious things than these;
But what are they all now to me?
My own bright isle! my home beyond the seas!
All, all have fled, and left me only thee,
Thou blessed Light! would I could once more feel;
The warm free breezes o'er my senses steal;
Methinks 'twould melt, ay, melt away
The icy weight, which day by day,
Has rested on my spirit, till the gloom
And dampness of the dungeon, like a tomb
Seem closing round me. Oh! the agony,
The restless longing, craving to be free:
Free as the mountain peaks, which rise
Upward, still upward to the clear cold skies;
Free and unfettered, as the Southern breeze,
Which wafts strange music thro' the orange trees
Of my own bright land! Oh! but to tread once more,
To feel upon my own loved mountains,
To see the soft blue heavens bending o'er
Me, and the silvery fountains
Gushing and sparkling at my feet.
Oh! but again to greet
Their cooling freshness, and to lave
My fever'd brain in the bright wave.
To feel that they once more were near,
They, the beloved; where are they now?
Wife of my bosom! and ye children dear!
Alas! I feel upon my burning brow
The last fond kiss—that it should be the last;—
Like shipwreck'd mariners, to a quivering mast,
193
I see you now, all pale and tearful there,
Breathing the last adieu; it cannot be;
'Twas not the last, I will be free!
Vain hopes, vain dreams, while thou,
The sceptre of the world hath grasp'd;
Nations and kings before thee bow'd,—
Yielding all memories of the past
At thy dread summons, ay! 'twere well to lave,
Blest Freedom's memory in oblivion's wave,
Since they are slaves, kissing thy sovereign feet;
Alas! I too have trusted thee, and in my power
Deemed that as brothers we might meet;
Would that a voice had warned me of this hour:
Yet if the victor's car triumphant be,
What were a world of breaking hearts to thee?
A breaking heart! O! God of heaven!
Thou, thou! alone hast power to see,
How my whole being, heart and soul, have striven
For thy free gift, our birth right, Liberty!
Was it all vain? lives there no trace
Of hallow'd Freedom in all Afric's race?
Bows he beneath his chain, as servile now,
As tho' the mountain breeze ne'er swept his brow,
A free-man? Thus may it be and yet,
Not alll in vain this struggling to be free:
Tho' age on age may roll, and he forget
While groaning 'neath the lash of Tyranny,
Where now he toils—a purple tide
Told where his fathers fought and died.
And yet not all in vain, Father of light,
The sacred flame of Freedom, shall not be
Quenched in the gloom of slavery's night,
Its power and glory sprang from Thee!
It shall not die, life may depart,
The sod lie on this breaking heart;
Yet as the weary soul shall then arise,
To the pure light of heaven-born skies,
So shall there be on earth, a jubilee
Of nations,—Afric's sons shall yet be free.
The sceptre of the world hath grasp'd;
Nations and kings before thee bow'd,—
Yielding all memories of the past
At thy dread summons, ay! 'twere well to lave,
Blest Freedom's memory in oblivion's wave,
Since they are slaves, kissing thy sovereign feet;
Alas! I too have trusted thee, and in my power
Deemed that as brothers we might meet;
Would that a voice had warned me of this hour:
Yet if the victor's car triumphant be,
What were a world of breaking hearts to thee?
A breaking heart! O! God of heaven!
Thou, thou! alone hast power to see,
How my whole being, heart and soul, have striven
For thy free gift, our birth right, Liberty!
Was it all vain? lives there no trace
Of hallow'd Freedom in all Afric's race?
Bows he beneath his chain, as servile now,
As tho' the mountain breeze ne'er swept his brow,
A free-man? Thus may it be and yet,
Not alll in vain this struggling to be free:
Tho' age on age may roll, and he forget
While groaning 'neath the lash of Tyranny,
Where now he toils—a purple tide
Told where his fathers fought and died.
And yet not all in vain, Father of light,
194
Quenched in the gloom of slavery's night,
Its power and glory sprang from Thee!
It shall not die, life may depart,
The sod lie on this breaking heart;
Yet as the weary soul shall then arise,
To the pure light of heaven-born skies,
So shall there be on earth, a jubilee
Of nations,—Afric's sons shall yet be free.
| Hagar | |