When shall the world call down, to cleanse her shame, 475 That embryo fpirit, yet without a name, That friend of Nature, whofe avenging hands Shall burft the Lybian's adamantine bands? Who, fternly marking on his native foil, The blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil, 480 Shall bid each righteous heart exult, to fee Peace to the flave, and vengeance on the free! Yet, yet, degraded men! th' expected day That breaks your bitter сыр, is far away; Trade, wealth, and fashion, ask you ftill to bleed, And holy men give fcripture for the deed; A wretch, a coward; yes, because a slave! 485 Eternal Nature! when thy giant hand Had heav'd the-floods, and fix'd the trembling land, 490 When life fprung ftartling at thy plastic call, Endless her forms, and Man the lord of all! Say, was that lordly form infpir'd by thee To wear eternal chains, and bow the knee? 495 Yok'd with the brutes, and fetter'd to the foil; Weigh'd in a tyrant's balance with his gold? No!-Nature ftamp'd us in a heav'nly mould! She bade no wretch his thankless labour urge, To call upon his country's name, and weep! Lo! once in triumph on his boundless plain, The quiver'd chief of Congo lov'd to reign; With fires proportion'd to his native sky, Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye; The fpear, the lion, and the woods his own; Or led the combat, bold without a plan, An artlefs favage, but a fearless man! The plunderer came :-alas! no glory smiles For Congo's chief on yonder Indian isles; 505 510 For ever fallen! no fon of Nature now, With Freedom charter'd on his manly brow! Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away, 515 Starts, with a bursting heart, for ever moré To curfe the fun that lights their guilty shore! The fhrill horn blew ; 10 at that alarum knell That funeral dirge to darknefs hath refign'd Poor fetter'd man! I hear thee whispering low Unhallow'd vows to Guilt, the child of Woe! 520 Friendless thy heart; and, canft thou harbour there 525 A wifh but death-a paffion but defpair? The widow'd Indian, when her lord expires, Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral fires! So falls the heart at Thraldrom's bitter figh! So Virtue dies, the fpoufe of Liberty! 530 But not to Lybia's barren climes alone, To Chili, or the wild Siberian zone, Belong the wretched heart and haggard eye, Degraded worth, and poor misfortune's figh! Ye orient realms, where Ganges' waters run ! 535 How long your tribes have trembled, and obey'd! 540 545 |