SLAVERY.

A POEM.

BY HARRIET FALCONAR.

YE noble few, firm fix'd in virtue's cause,
 Ye just protectors of our sacred laws,
 Whose hearts stern av'rice strove in vain to steel,
 And bless'd with souls disdaining not to feel;
 Let not the genial warmth, the latent fire,
 That glows in Britain's valiant sons, expire;
 But in your breasts let justice still prevail,
 While Pity weeps to hear the woe-fraught tale. 
Angelic maid, thy melting eye may boast
 The tear still pour'd o'er Afric's desert coast;
 Unhappy land, where hostile av'rice reigns,
 And rears her blood-stain'd banners o'er thy plains;
 Where stern Opression's hireling minions rove,
 To burst each tender tie of social love;
 Inhuman fiend, thy desolating hand
 Spread wide destruction o'er the bleeding land;
 Bade gay-plum'd joy and guiltless pleasure cease,
 And banish'd far the healing balm of peace. 
Yet once on them fair Peace propitious smil'd,
 And social joy the tedious hour beguil'd;
 On them bright Pleasure cast her fairest ray,
 Soft as the rosy beam of op'ning day;
 Love, health, and innocence, they still possess'd,
 Contested tenants of the peaceful breast;
 Vindictive fate rul'd o'er thye dreadful hour,
 When first Opression's desolating pow'r,
 Deaf to the mourning parents plaintive cry,
 The widow's fondness or the lover's sigh,
 From each fond breast the hapless victims tore,
 Far from the prospect of their native shore. 
Think not, ye slaves in pleasure's venal train,
 The weeping orphan's tears are pour'd in vain;
 Awhile in soft repose ye calmly rest,
 Nor heed the pangs that tear each bleeding breast;
 For you gay Pleasure spreads her gladsome wing,
 And fair the fading flow'rs of fortune spring;
 Yet heav'n, indignant, views the impious deed
 That bids the injur'd sons of Afric bleed;
 Soon shall the voice of angry Justice call,
 And bid the pointed sword of vengeance fall;
 Shall pleasure then avert the dreadful nod,
 Or calm the vengeance of an angry God? 
No, in that hour reflection wakes anew,
 And calls each crime, each folly, to the view;
 Bids the lost thoughts eternity explore,
 Or pause o'er scenes we can recal no more. 

To man superior reason's light was giv'n,
 Reason, the noblest gift of bounteous heav'n;
 Unfailing beam, bright intellectual ray
 Thou steady guide through errors devious way;
 Say, wert thou first by gracious heav'n design'd,
 To stamp injustice on the human kind;
 Forbid it truth, forbid it ev'ry breast
 That heaves in pity for the wretch oppress'd;
 Yet reason, jutice, mercy, plead in vain,
 Still the sad victim drags his galling chain;
 Still bows submissive to the tyrant hand,
 That tore the suff'rer from his native land;
 Yet, e'er the arts of lux'ry began,
 They boasted liberty, the right of man;
 Serene, they saw each peaceful morning smile,
 Joy led their hours and plenty bless'd their toil;
 Their pleading sighs, their suppliant moving pray'r,
 Daughter of Virtue! Royal Charlotte, hear! 
Sovereign, yet parent, of this happy isle,
 O'er whose gay plains fair Plenty deigns to smile;
 Where spotless peace extends her azure wing,
 And liberty's enchanting blossoms spring;
 Thine is compassion's sympathetic sigh,
 The melting tear that beams in pity's eye;
 The heart like thine, that feels another's pain,
 Hears not distress'd misfortune plead in vain;
 Be't thine to heal pale sorrow's wounded breast,
 And lull each raging passion into rest;
 Let not the wretched slave in vain deplore
 The long-lost joys he must behold no more;
 Then, while Britannia hails thy sacred name,
 A deed like this shall swell the trump of fame;
 Virtues like thine shall wake the sounding lyre,
 Each bosom glow with emulative fire;
 And, swell'd with themes like this, the poet's page
 Remain admir'd through each succeeding age. 

When Superstition rais'd her threat'ning hand,
 And scatter's horror round the bleeding land,
 On sad Britannia's ravag'd plains she stood,
 Drench'd in one fatal stream of martyr'd blood;
 O'er ev'ry scene, with fell delight, she flew,
 And smil'd, exulting, at the dreadful view;
 Religion's sacred truths, though once design'd
 To banish error from the darken'd mind,
 Avail'd not here; her pure celestial light,
 Lost in the gloom of superstition's night,
 Drooping, beheld the fatal torrent roll
 Resistless terrors o'er the doubtful soul;
 Till bright Eliza came, whose matchless sway
 Call'd forth the dawn of fair religion's day;
 Cherish'd the genial influence as it rose,
 Dispell'd their errors and reliev'd their woes. 
Shall Britain then, who boasts th'unrivall'd deed,
 Relentless, see the guiltless victim bleed;
 Amid the horrors of tormenting pain
 He seeks for mercy, but he seeks in vain;
 Affrighted Mercy quits the guilty land,
 Where grim Oppression waves her tyrant hand;
 Where, to the savage herd, a harmless prey,
 Sinks faint beneath the fervid beam of day;
 Or, haply trembling in the midnight air,
 Sunk in the deepest gloom of low despair;
 Or burning thirst and furious want, combin'd,
 With wild distraction fire his glowing mind,
 Till death restores to him eternal rest,
 And calms the tumults of his troubled breast. 

The British youth, torn from his much-lov'd home,
 O'er foreign seas and foreign coasts to roam,
 Amid the fury of the piercing blast,
 The swell'd wave circling round the shiver'd mast,
 While bursting peals of thunder rend the skies,
 And o'er the deck the foaming billows rise,
 Awhile in terror views the light'ning glare,
 With streaming horror, through the midnight air;
 The storm once past, he gains the friendly ray
 Of hope, to guide him through the dang'rous way;
 Smiling, she bids each future prospect rise,
 Through fancy's vary'd mirror, to his eyes. 
Not so the slave; oppress'd with secret care,
 He sinks the hapless victim of despair;
 Or, doom'd to torments that might even move
 The steely heart, and melt it into love;
 Til worn with anguish, with'ring in his bloom,
 He falls an early tenant of the tomb! 
Shall Britain view, unmov'd, sad Afric's shore
 Delug'd so oft in streams of purple gore! 
Britain, where science, peace, and plenty, smile,
 Virtue's bright seat, and freedom's favour'd isle! 
Rich are her plains and fruitful is her clime,
 The scourge of tyrants, and the boast of time;
 Of ev'ry virtue, ev'ry worth possess'd
 That fires the hero's or the patriot's breast;
 There, nobly warm'd with animating fire,
 Our Shakespear struck his soul-commanding lyre;
 There scenes of bliss immortal Milton sung,
 And notes harmonious issu'd from his tongue;
 And bards like these shall boast in ev'ry age,
 While native genius glows in Hayley's page;
 While genius bids, to our enchanted eyes,
 In Swift's own strains, a second Pope arise. 
When truth, perplex'd in error's thorny maze,
 Threw o'er the world obscure and darken'd rays,
 then Newton rose, unveil'd the beauteous maid;
 He spoke, and nature stood at once display'd. 
These were the souls that Britain once posses'd,
 When genuine virtue fir'd the patriot's breast;
 And still shall she protect fair freedom's cause,
 And vindicate her violated laws;
 Waft peace and freedom to a wretched land,
 And scatter blessings with a lib'ral hand. 

In Britain's paradise, by freedom made,
 The tree of commerce spread's its ample shade;
 Unsparing plenty bends the lofty brow,
 And wealth bright glitters on each golden bough;
 On some the richest gems of India shone,
 And added lustre to the British throne;
 Such as in gentle radiance might outvie
 The melting lustre of the sparkling eye;
 Such as in gay variety might grace
 The native beauties of the lovely face:
 On some the bud of health, in rosy bloom,
 Call'd languid sickness from an early tomb;
 Or bade contented labour calmly smile
 O'er the rich prospect of his native soil. 
One ample branch, superior to the rest,
 Rose to the view, in splendid radiance dress'd;
 On ev'ry leaf the tempting manna hung,
 In golden dyes each beauteous blossom sprung;
 The flow'rs of brightest hue oppression nam'd,
 Yet from the tree the rank of commerce claim'd;
 Led by the fair deciet beneath its shade,
 With eager eye the slaves of av'rice stray'd;
 This fatal fruit was lovliest to the view,
 That on the spreading tree of commerce grew;
 They grasp'd the baneful load with fatal haste,
 Destructive poison to the th'enchanted taste;
 Lost in the pleasing dream, awhile the soul,
 Where av'rice reign'd secure from all controul,
 Slept calm, till conscience, with unerring dart,
 Struck deep conviction through the guilty heart;
 And bade reflection wake the feeling mind,
 That turn'd to ev'ry scene it left behind:
 There might they see the tortur'd wretch implore
 Eternal vengeance on Britannia's shore;
 In silent grief, amid distraction wild,
 The wretched parent mourn her long-lost child;
 These scenes appear when death, in terror dress'd,
 Bids sharp repentance wound the shudd'ring breast;
 When o'er your heads th'avenging thunders roll,
 And quick destruction seems to snatch the soul;
 When fast around the dreadful light'nings fall,
 And guilt shall hear th'incens'd Almighty's call;
 Then will his wrath destroy the life he gave,
 And justice snatch the soul that mercy could not save. 
Britain, be thine the glorious task to heal
 The bleeding wounds thy wretched sons shall feel;
 Extend thy ev'ry noble pow'r to save
 The wretch just tott'ring o'er an early grave;
 For, noble were the deed that could impart
 Reviving vigour to the drooping heart;
 For, then no more the fatal branch shall bind,
 In golden ties, the lost enchanted mind;
 Tear ev'ry fibre from the verdant root,
 And blast each dang'rous blossom ere it shoot;
 So shall the praise of ransom'd millions rise,
 In grateful incense, to the echoing skies;
 So through the world thy matchless fame extend,
 And wond'ring nations hail thee mercy's friend;
 Thee, first in ev'ry virtue, ev'ry worth,
 That gives to glory or to genius birth;
 Let thy avenging, thy all-conqu'ring, hand
 Give peace and freedom to an injur'd land! 
Glory be thine; and, let pale mis'ry prove
 The joys of friendship and the bliss of love;
 And heav'nly liberty's celestial ray
 Beam o'er the world one pure eternal day!