Lord of the earth! we will not raise For thee no altar blaze with hallowed fire. Thy sacred Majesty to bless To thee a Slave he lives, for thee a Slave he dies. Hush'd was the lute, the Hebrew ceased to sing; The shout rush'd forth, For ever live the King! Loud was the uproar, as when Rome's decree Pronounced Achaia once again was free; Assembled Greece enrapt with fond belief Heard the false boon, and bless'd the treacherous Chief. Each breast with freedom's holy ardour glows, From every voice the cry of rapture rose; Their thundering clamours rend the astonished sky, And birds o'erpassing hear, and drop, and die. Thus o'er the Persian dome their plaudits ring, And the high hall re-echoed-Live the King! The Mutes bow'd reverent down before their Lord, The assembled Satraps envied and adored; Joy sparkled in the Monarch's conscious eyes, And his pleased pride already doom'd the prize. Silent they saw Zorobabel advance: Why is the warrior's cheek so red' Why downward droops his musing head? Why that slow step, that faint advance, That keen yet quick retreating glance; That crested head in war tower'd high, No backward glance disgraced that eye, No flushing fear that cheek o'erspread, When stern he strode o'er heaps of dead: Strange tumult now his bosom moves,The Warrior fears because he loves. Why does the Youth delight to rove Amid the dark and lonely grove? Why in the throng where all are gay, With absent eyes from gaiety distraught, Sits be alone in silent thought? Silent he sits, for far away His passion'd soul delights to stray; Recluse he roves as if he fain would shun All human-kind, because he loves but One! Yes, King of Persia, thou art blest! But not because the sparkling bowl To rapture elevates thy waken'd soul; But not because of Power possest; Nor that the Nations dread thy nod, And Princes reverence thee their earthly God' Even on a Monarch's solitude Will Care, dark visitant, intrude; The bowl brief pleasure can bestow, The purple cannot shield from woe! But, King of Persia, thou art blest, For Heaven who raised thee thus the world above, Hath made the happy in Apame's love! Oh! I have seen him fondly trace He ceased, and silent still remain'd the throng, While rapt attention own'd the power of song. Now silent sate the expectant crowd: Alone Ancient of days! Eternal Truth! one hymn, And death, for He hath delegated power, Unchanging Justice, universal Love. The dying notes still murmur'd on the string, Then just and generous, thus the Monarch cries, «Be thine, Zorobabel, the well-earn'd prize. The purple robe of state thy form shall fold, Ask what thou wilt, and what thou wilt possess.» « Fallen is Jerusalem!» the Hebrew cries, Hear the keen taunt, and drag the captive chain; HOLD your mad hands! for ever on your plain When first the Abolition of the SLAVE-TRADE was agitated in Englaud, the friends of humanity endeavoured by two means to accomplish it-to destroy the Trade immediately by the interference of Government; or by the disuse of West-Indian productions: a slow but certain method. For a while Government held the language of Justice, and individuals with enthusiasm banished sugar from their tables. This enthusiasm soon cooled; the majority of those who had made this sacrifice (I prostitute the word, but such they thought it), persuaded themselves that parliament would do all, and that individual efforts were no longer necessary. Thus ended the one attempt; it is not difficult to say why the other has failed, it is not difficult, when the minister has once found himself in the minority, and on the side of Justice.Would to God that the interests of those who dispose of us as they please, had been as closely connected with the preservation of Peace and Liberty, as with the continuance of this traffic in human flesh! There are yet two other methods remaining, by which this traffic will probably be abolished-by the introduction of East-Indian or maple sugar, or by the just and general rebellion of the Negroes. To these past and present prospects the following Poems occasionally allude: to the English custom of exciting wars upon the slave-coast that they may purchase prisoners, and to the punishment sometimes inflicted upon a Negro for Murder, of which Hector St John was an eye-witness. For the pale fiend cold-hearted Commerce there SONNET II. WHY dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hair, SONNET III. On, he is worn with toil! the big drops run Darts on him his full beams: gasping he lies While that inhuman trader lifts on high All lost for ever! Then Remembrance wrought His soul to madness: round his restless bed Freedom's pale spectre stalk'd, with a stern smile Pointing the wounds of Slavery, the while She shook her chains and hung her sullen head: No more on Heaven he calls with fruitless breath, But sweetens with revenge the draught of death. SONNET VI. HIGH in the air exposed the Slave is hung, To all the birds of Heaven, their living food! He groans not, though awaked by that fierce Sun New tortures live to drink their parent blood! He groans not, though the gorging Vulture tear The quivering fibre! Hither gaze, O ye Who tore this Man from Peace and Liberty! Gaze hither, ye who weigh with scrupulous care The right and prudent; for beyond the grave There is another world!-And call to mind, Ere your decrees proclaim to all mankind Murder is legalized, that there the Slave, Before the Eternal, « thunder-tongued shall plead Against the deep damnation of your deed.» TO THE GENIUS OF AFRICA. 1794. O THOU, who from the mountain's height Roll'st down thy clouds with all their weight Of waters to old Nile's majestic tide; Or o'er the dark sepulchral plain Recallest Carthage in her ancient pride, The Mistress of the Main; Hear, Genius, hear thy children's cry! Not always shouldst thou love to brood Stern o'er the desert solitude, Where seas of Sand toss their hot surges high; Nor, Genius, should the midnight song Detain thee in some milder mood The palmy plains among, Where Gambia to the torch's light Flows radiant through the awaken'd night. Ah, linger not to hear the song! Genius, avenge thy children's wrong! The Demon Avarice on your shore Pours all the horrors of his train, And hark! where from the field of gore Howls the hyena o'er the slain! Lo! where the flaming village fires the skies! Avenging Power, awake! arise! Arise, thy children's wrongs redress! Ah, heed the mother's wretchedness! When in the hot infectious air O'er her sick babe she bows opprest,— Ah, hear her when the Traders tear The drooping infant from her breast! Whelm'd in the waters he shall rest! Hear thou the wretched mother's cries, Avenging Power! awake! arise! By the rank infected air That taints those dungeons of despair, VERSES SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE AT OXFORD, UPON THE INSTALLATION OF LORD GRENVILLE. GRENVILLE, few years have had their course, since last Like this day's pomp; and yet to those who throng'd Evolving all things in its quiet course, Toward the sound contending, when they hear O Grenville, and while ages roll away Hath wrought for them: and though those years have His midnight murders and perfidious plots, seen Fearful vicissitudes, of wilder change Than history yet had learnt, or old romance All righteously ordain'd. Lo! kingdoms wreck'd, By the same breath that heap'd them; rightful kings, Deem not these dread events the monstrous birth Of chance! And thou, O England, who dost ride Serene amid the waters of the flood, Preserving, even like the Ark of old, Amid the general wreck, thy purer faith, Domestic loves, and ancient liberty, Look to thyself, O England! for be sure, Even to the measure of thine own desert, The cup of retribution to thy lips Shall soon or late be dealt!-a thought that well Might fill the stoutest heart of all thy sous With awful apprehension! Therefore, they Who fear the Eternal's justice, bless thy name, Grenville, because the wrongs of Africa Cry out no more to draw a curse from heaven On England; for if still the trooping sharks Track by the scent of death the accursed ship Freighted with human anguish, in her wake Pursue the chase, crowd round her keel, and dart Are but a tale of years so long gone by, That they who read distrust the hideous truth, Abate their horror: Grenville, even then Whose deeds partake of heaven. Long ages hence And Calabar, no longer startled then |