Humanity, or the rights of nature, a poem in two books. By the author of sympathy [i.e. S. J. Pratt] |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
 | Humanity, or the rights of nature, a poem |  |
Thus Negro Virtues, Negro Frailties shine,
Say, fairer Savage, do they yield to thine!
Their ardent virtues emulate thy own,
Their errors are the errors of their zone;
Art thou then still Supreme of human race,
Still boasts thy Nature the superiour grace,
Ah no! without thy cultivating arts,
Worth, greatness, goodness, elevates their hearts,
The tow'ring spirits in their bosoms move,
They hate with vigour, as with force they love,
Together leagu'd, till death they faithful toil,
And smooth the wrong that chains them to the soil;
Still hand in hand their direful loads they bear,
Divide each joy and mitigate despair:
Vivid as Thine the sense of joy and pain,
Thrills in each pulse, and vibrates in each vein;
When hope inspires, behold, as bright a ray,
Illumes their eyes and o'er their features play;
When grief assails, the tears as copious flow,
To mark the soft or agonizing woe;
When the lash scourges or the pincers rend,
A shriek as piercing from the heart they send;
Ere the brave spirit of the man is broke,
Ev'n with a Briton's scorn they spurn the yoke,
Love of their native Land, that magic charm,
Against an host hath made an handful arm,
They love like Thee the soil that gave them birth,
And treasure up each particle of earth
Fondly embosom'd ere they leave the shore,
And kiss the sacred relique o'er and o'er.
Say, fairer Savage, do they yield to thine!
Their ardent virtues emulate thy own,
Their errors are the errors of their zone;
Art thou then still Supreme of human race,
Still boasts thy Nature the superiour grace,
Ah no! without thy cultivating arts,
Worth, greatness, goodness, elevates their hearts,
81
They hate with vigour, as with force they love,
Together leagu'd, till death they faithful toil,
And smooth the wrong that chains them to the soil;
Still hand in hand their direful loads they bear,
Divide each joy and mitigate despair:
Vivid as Thine the sense of joy and pain,
Thrills in each pulse, and vibrates in each vein;
When hope inspires, behold, as bright a ray,
Illumes their eyes and o'er their features play;
When grief assails, the tears as copious flow,
To mark the soft or agonizing woe;
When the lash scourges or the pincers rend,
A shriek as piercing from the heart they send;
Ere the brave spirit of the man is broke,
Ev'n with a Briton's scorn they spurn the yoke,
Love of their native Land, that magic charm,
Against an host hath made an handful arm,
They love like Thee the soil that gave them birth,
And treasure up each particle of earth
82
And kiss the sacred relique o'er and o'er.
Musicians, Poets, too, by nature taught,
A song spontaneous bursting from a thought,
Swift into measure subjects seem to fly,
As transient objects transient themes supply,
Nature to harmony attunes the ear,
And her nice touches o'er their limbs appear,
Each nerve extatic springs to the rebound,
And every motion seems to paint a sound;
The sweet enthusiasm ev'ry grief beguiles,
And the scourg'd Captive even in anguish smiles,
With thrilling passion ev'ry feature glows,
So strong the charm it cheats awhile their woes.
A song spontaneous bursting from a thought,
Swift into measure subjects seem to fly,
As transient objects transient themes supply,
Nature to harmony attunes the ear,
And her nice touches o'er their limbs appear,
Each nerve extatic springs to the rebound,
And every motion seems to paint a sound;
The sweet enthusiasm ev'ry grief beguiles,
And the scourg'd Captive even in anguish smiles,
With thrilling passion ev'ry feature glows,
So strong the charm it cheats awhile their woes.
Their Woes, how countless—ah! ill-fated race,
How shall I paint thy anguish and disgrace,
Ah! think not, White, the Muse from fancy brings
Those woes, for Hist'ry sanctions what she sings,
Her bloody Annals still does Truth unfold,
Stain'd with the victims of soul-spotting gold.
How shall I paint thy anguish and disgrace,
Ah! think not, White, the Muse from fancy brings
Those woes, for Hist'ry sanctions what she sings,
Her bloody Annals still does Truth unfold,
Stain'd with the victims of soul-spotting gold.
83
Yet, who the Negro's sufferings can relate,
Or mark the varied horrors of their fate;
Where, blushing Truth! shall we their griefs begin,
Or how commence the catalogue of Sin?
Demons of torture! ye who mock at woe,
And smile to see the crimson blood-track flow,
In horrid triumph rise from central Hell,
Th'inventive pangs of Christian growth to tell,
Oh! aid the shuddering Muse to paint the grief,
Which calls on death for pity and relief;
Oh! powers of Mercy, loose that massy yoke,
Oh! hold that Arm, for murder's in the stroke!
Behold that axe the quivering limb assails,
Behold that body weltering in its wails!
Ah! hear that Bludgeon fall, that lash resound,
Ah! see those wretches writhing on the ground!
See yonder mangled mass of Atoms lie,
Behold that Christian's hands the flames apply,
At the bare feet is laid the sulphurous train,
Climbs to the heart and burns into the brain,
Or mark the varied horrors of their fate;
Where, blushing Truth! shall we their griefs begin,
Or how commence the catalogue of Sin?
Demons of torture! ye who mock at woe,
And smile to see the crimson blood-track flow,
In horrid triumph rise from central Hell,
Th'inventive pangs of Christian growth to tell,
Oh! aid the shuddering Muse to paint the grief,
Which calls on death for pity and relief;
Oh! powers of Mercy, loose that massy yoke,
Oh! hold that Arm, for murder's in the stroke!
Behold that axe the quivering limb assails,
Behold that body weltering in its wails!
Ah! hear that Bludgeon fall, that lash resound,
Ah! see those wretches writhing on the ground!
See yonder mangled mass of Atoms lie,
Behold that Christian's hands the flames apply,
At the bare feet is laid the sulphurous train,
Climbs to the heart and burns into the brain,
84
Survey the triple horrors of their state,
Doom'd in each change to be the sport of fate,
Torn from their native land at first they come,
And then are thrown into the sailing tomb,
In wat'ry dens like coupled beasts they lie,
And beg the mournful privilege to die;
But Death, more kind than Man, oft brings relief,
Releases one, while one survives to grief;
The living wretch his dead associate sees,
The body clasps and drinks the putrid breeze,
Chain'd to the noxious corpse till rudely thrown,
In the vex'd sea, then left a slave alone.
Ah! wretch forlorn! thy lot the most severe,
Assassination would be mercy here!
Methinks I hear thee cry, “Ah! give me death,
“Give the last blow and stop this hated breath,
“To arm this hand were holy innocence,
“I call on suicide as self defence,
“Oh! for a sword to waft me to the shore,
“Where never Christian White may torture more,
“Curse, curse me not with Being, instant throw
“This loathsome body to the waves below!”
His prayer deny'd, condemn'd 'midst slaves to groan,
The cruel Merchant marks him for his own,
The scar by Christian cruelty imprest,
Smoaks on his arm, or blackens on his breast,
The wattled oziers form his rugged bed,
And daily anguish earns his daily bread;
Short food, and shorter rest, and endless toil,
Above the scourge, below the burning soil.
Doom'd in each change to be the sport of fate,
Torn from their native land at first they come,
And then are thrown into the sailing tomb,
In wat'ry dens like coupled beasts they lie,
And beg the mournful privilege to die;
But Death, more kind than Man, oft brings relief,
Releases one, while one survives to grief;
The living wretch his dead associate sees,
The body clasps and drinks the putrid breeze,
Chain'd to the noxious corpse till rudely thrown,
In the vex'd sea, then left a slave alone.
Ah! wretch forlorn! thy lot the most severe,
Assassination would be mercy here!
Methinks I hear thee cry, “Ah! give me death,
“Give the last blow and stop this hated breath,
“To arm this hand were holy innocence,
“I call on suicide as self defence,
“Oh! for a sword to waft me to the shore,
“Where never Christian White may torture more,
85
“This loathsome body to the waves below!”
His prayer deny'd, condemn'd 'midst slaves to groan,
The cruel Merchant marks him for his own,
The scar by Christian cruelty imprest,
Smoaks on his arm, or blackens on his breast,
The wattled oziers form his rugged bed,
And daily anguish earns his daily bread;
Short food, and shorter rest, and endless toil,
Above the scourge, below the burning soil.
| Humanity, or the rights of nature, a poem | |