A POEM ON THE INHUMANITY OF THE SLAVE-TRADE.

BRISTOL, thine heart hath throbb'd to glory. — Slaves,
 E'en Christian slaves, have shook their chains, and gaz'd
 With wonder and amazement on thee. Hence
 Ye grov'ling souls, who think the term I give,
 Of Christian slave, a paradox! to you
 I do not turn, but leave you to conception
 Narrow; with that be blest, nor dare to stretch
 Your shackled souls along the course of Freedom. 

Yet, Bristol, list! nor deem Lactilla's soul
 Lessen'd by distance; snatch her rustic thought,
 Her crude ideas, from their panting state,
 And let them fly in wide expansion; lend
 Thine energy, so little understood
 By the rude million, and I'll dare the strain
 Of Heav'n-born Liberty till Nature moves
 Obedient to her voice. Alas! my friend,
 Strong rapture dies within the soul, while Pow'r
 Drags on his bleeding victims. Custom, Law,
 Ye blessings, and ye curses of mankind,
 What evils do ye cause? We feel enslaved,
 Yet move in your direction. Custom, thou
 Wilt preach up filial piety; thy sons
 Will groan, and stare with impudence at Heav'n,
 As if they did abjure the act, where Sin
 Sits full on Inhumanity; the church
 They fill with mouthing, vap'rous sighs and tears,
 Which, like the guileful crocodile's, oft fall,
 Nor fall, but at the cost of human bliss. 

Custom, thou hast undone us! led us far
 From God-like probity, from truth, and heaven. 

But come, ye souls who feel for human woe,
 Tho' drest in savage guise! Approach, thou son,
 Whose heart would shudder at a father's chains,
 And melt o'er thy lov'd brother as he lies
 Gasping in torment undeserv'd. Oh, sight
 Horrid and insupportable! far worse
 Than an immediate, an heroic death;
 Yet to this sight I summon thee. Approach,
 Thou slave of avarice, that canst see the maid
 Weep o'er her inky sire! Spare me, thou God
 Of all-indulgent Mercy, if I scorn
 This gloomy wretch, and turn my tearful eye
 To more enlighten'd beings. Yes, my tear
 Shall hang on the green furze, like pearly dew
 Upon the blossom of the morn. My song
 Shall teach sad Philomel a louder note,
 When Nature swells her woe. O'er suff'ring man
 My soul with sorrow bends! Then come, ye few
 Who feel a more than cold, material essence;
 Here ye may vent your sighs, till the bleak North
 Find its adherents aided. — Ah, no more! 
The dingy youth comes on, sullen in chains;
 He smiles on the rough sailor, who aloud
 Strikes at the spacious heav'n, the earth, the sea,
 In breath too blasphemous; yet not to him
 Blasphemous, for he dreads not either: — lost
 In dear internal imag'ry, the soul
 Of Indian Luco rises to his eyes,
 Silent, not inexpressive: the strong beams
 With eager wildness yet drink in the view
 Of his too humble home, where he had left
 His mourning father, and his Incilanda. 

Curse on the toils spread by a Christian hand
 To rob the Indian of his freedom! Curse
 On him who from a bending parent steals
 His dear support of age, his darling child;
 Perhaps a son, or a more tender daughter,
 Who might have clos'd his eyelids, as the spark
 Of life gently retired. Oh, thou poor world! 
Thou fleeting good to individuals! see
 How much for thee they care, how wide they ope
 Their helpless arms to clasp thee; vapour thou! 
More swift than passing wind! thou leav'st them nought
 Amid th'unreal scene, but a scant grave. 

I know the crafty merchant will oppose
 The plea of nature to my strain, and urge
 His toils are for his children: the soft plea
 Dissolves my soul — but when I sell a son,
 Thou God of nature, let it be my own! 

Behold that Christian! see what horrid joy
 Lights up his moody features, while he grasps
 The wish'd-for gold, purchase of human blood! 
Away, thou seller of mankind! Bring on
 Thy daughter to this market! bring thy wife! 
Thine aged mother, though of little worth,
 With all thy ruddy boys! Sell them, thou wretch,
 And swell the price of Luco! Why that start? 
Why gaze as thou wouldst fright me from my challenge
 With look of anguish? Is it Nature strains
 Thine heart-strings at the image? Yes, my charge
 Is full against her, and she rends thy soul,
 While I but strike upon thy pityless ear,
 Fearing her rights are violated. — Speak,
 Astound the voice of Justice! bid thy tears
 Melt the unpitying pow'r, while thus she claims
 The pledges of thy love. Oh, throw thine arm
 Around thy little ones, and loudly plead
 Thou canst not sell thy children. — Yet, beware
 Lest Luco's groan be heard; should that prevail,
 Justice will scorn thee in her turn, and hold
 Thine act against thy pray'r. Why clasp, she cries,
 That blooming youth? Is it because thou lov'st him? 
Why Luco was belov'd: then wilt thou feel,
 Thou selfish Christian, for thy private woe,
 Yet cause such pangs to him that is a father? 
Whence comes thy right to barter for thy fellows? 
Where are thy statutes? Whose the iron pen
 That gave thee precedent? Give me the seal
 Of virtue, or religion, for thy trade,
 And I will ne'er upbraid thee; but if force
 Superior, hard brutality alone
 Become thy boast, hence to some savage haunt,
 Nor claim protection from my social laws. 

Luco is gone; his little brothers weep,
 While his fond mother climbs the hoary rock
 Whose point o'er-hangs the main. No Luco there,
 No sound, save the hoarse billows. On she roves,
 With love, fear, hope, holding alternate rage
 In her too anxious bosom. Dreary main! 
Thy murmurs now are riot, while she stands
 List'ning to ev'ry breeze, waiting the step
 Of gentle Luco. Ah, return! return! 
Too hapless mother, thy indulgent arms
 Shall never clasp thy fetter'd Luco more. 
See Incilanda! artless maid, my soul
 Keeps pace with thee, and mourns. Now o'er the hill
 She creeps, with timid foot, while Sol embrowns
 The bosom of the isle, to where she left
 Her faithful lover: here the well-known cave,
 By Nature form'd amid the rock, endears
 The image of her Luco; here his pipe,
 Form'd of the polish'd cane, neglected lies,
 No more to vibrate; here the useless dart,
 The twanging bow, and the fierce panther's skin,
 Salute the virgin's eye. But where is Luco? 
He comes not down the steep, tho' he had vow'd,
 When the sun's beams at noon should sidelong gild
 The cave's wide entrance, he would swift descend
 To bless his Incilanda. Ten pale moons
 Had glided by, since to his generous breast
 He clasp'd the tender maid, and whisper'd love. 
Oh, mutual sentiment! thou dang'rous bliss! 
So exquisite, that Heav'n had been unjust
 Had it bestowd less exquisite of ill;
 When thou art held no more, thy pangs are deep,
 Thy joys convulsive to the soul; yet all
 Are meant to smooth th'uneven road of life. 

For Incilanda, Luco rang'd the wild,
 Holding her image to his panting heart;
 For her he strain'd the bow, for her he stript
 The bird of beauteous plumage; happy hour,
 When with these guiltless trophies he adorn'd
 The brow of her he lov'd. Her gentle breast
 With gratitude was fill'd, nor knew she aught
 Of language strong enough to paint her soul,
 Or ease the great emotion; whilst her eye
 Pursued the gen'rous Luco to the field,
 And glow'd with rapture at his wish'd return. 

Ah, sweet suspense! betwixt the mingled cares
 Of friendship, love, and gratitude, so mix'd,
 That ev'n the soul may cheat herself. — Down, down,
 Intruding Memory! bid thy struggles cease,
 At this soft scene of innate war. What sounds
 Break on her ear? She, starting, whispers "Luco." 
Be still, fond maid; list to the tardy step
 Of leaden-footed woe. A father comes,
 But not to seek his son, who from the deck
 Had breath'd a last adieu: no, he shuts out
 The soft, fallacious gleam of hope, and turns
 Within upon the mind: horrid and dark
 Are his wild, unenlighten'd pow'rs: no ray
 Of forc'd philosophy to calm his soul,
 But all the anarchy of wounded nature. 

Now he arraigns his country's gods, who sit,
 In his bright fancy, far beyond the hills,
 Unriveting the chains of slaves: his heart
 Beats quick with stubborn fury, while he doubts
 Their justice to his child. Weeping old man,
 Hate not a Christian's God, whose record holds
 Thine injured Luco's name. Frighted he starts,
 Blasphemes the Deity, whose altars rise
 Upon the Indian's helpless neck, and sinks,
 Despising comfort, till by grief and age
 His angry spirit is forced out. Oh, guide,
 Ye angel-forms, this joyless shade to worlds
 Where the poor Indian, with the sage, is prov'd
 The work of a Creator. Pause not here,
 Distracted maid! ah, leave the breathless form,
 On whose cold cheek thy tears so swiftly fall,
 Too unavailing! On this stone, she cries,
 My Luco sat, and to the wand'ring stars
 Pointed my eye, while from his gentle tongue
 Fell old traditions of his country's woe. 
Where now shall Incilanda seek him? Hence,
 Defenceless mourner, ere the dreary night
 Wrap thee in added horror. Oh, Despair,
 How eagerly thou rend'st the heart! She pines
 In anguish deep, and sullen: Luco's form
 Pursues her, lives in restless thought, and chides
 Soft consolation. Banish'd from his arms,
 She seeks the cold embrace of death; her soul
 Escapes in one sad sigh. Too hapless maid! 
Yet happier far than he thou lov'dst; his tear,
 His sigh, his groan avail not, for they plead
 Most weakly with a Christian. Sink, thou wretch,
 Whose act shall on the cheek of Albion's sons
 Throw Shame's red blush: thou, who hast frighted far
 Those simple wretches from thy God, and taught
 Their erring minds to mourn hispartial love,
 Profusely pour'd on thee, while they are left
 Neglected to thy mercy. Thus deceiv'd,
 How doubly dark must be their road to death! 

Luco is borne around the neighb'ring isles,
 Losing the knowledge of his native shore
 Amid the pathless wave; destin'd to plant
 The sweet luxuriant cane. He strives to please,
 Nor once complains, but greatly smothers grief. 
His hands are blister'd, and his feet are worn,
 Till ev'ry stroke dealt by his mattock gives
 Keen agony to life; while from his breast
 The sigh arises, burthen'd with the name
 Of Incilanda. Time inures the youth,
 His limbs grow nervous, strain'd by willing toil;
 And resignation, or a calm despair,
 (Most useful either) lulls him to repose. 

A Christian renegade, that from his soul
 Abjures the tenets of our schools, nor dreads
 A future punishment, nor hopes for mercy,
 Had fled from England, to avoid those laws
 Which must have made his life a retribution
 To violated justice, and had gain'd,
 By fawning guile, the confidence (ill placed)
 Of Luco's master. O'er the slave he stands
 With knotted whip, lest fainting nature shun
 The task too arduous, while his cruel soul,
 Unnat'ral, ever feeds, with gross delight,
 Upon his suff'rings. Many slaves there were,
 But none who could supress the sigh, and bend,
 So quietly as Luco: long he bore
 The stripes, that from his manly bosom drew
 The sanguine stream (too little priz'd); at length
 Hope fled his soul, giving her struggles o'er,
 And he resolv'd to die. The sun had reach'd
 His zenith — pausing faintly, Luco stood,
 Leaning upon his hoe, while mem'ry brought,
 In piteous imag'ry, his aged father,
 His poor fond mother, and his faithful maid:
 The mental group in wildest motion set
 Fruitless imagination; fury, grief,
 Alternate shame, the sense of insult, all
 Conspire to aid the inward storm; yet words
 Were no relief, he stood in silent woe. 

Gorgon, remorseless Christian, saw the slave
 Stand musing, 'mid the ranks, and, stealing soft
 Behind the studious Luco, struck his cheek
 With a too-heavy whip, that reach'd his eye,
 Making it dark for ever. Luco turn'd,
 In strongest agony, and with his hoe
 Struck the rude Christian on the forehead. Pride,
 With hateful malice, seize on Gorgon's soul,
 By nature fierce; while Luco sought the beach,
 And plung'd beneath the wave; but near him lay
 A planter's barge, whose seamen grasp'd his hair
 Dragging to life a wretch who wish'd to die. 

Rumour now spreads the tale, while Gorgon's breath
 Envenom'd, aids her blast: imputed crimes
 Oppose the plea of Luco, till he scorns
 Even a just defence, and stands prepared. 
The planters, conscious that to fear alone
 They owe their cruel pow'r, resolve to blend
 New torment with the pangs of death, and hold
 Their victims high in dreadful view, to fright
 The wretched number left. Luco is chain'd
 To a huge tree, his fellow-slaves are ranged
 To share the horrid sight; fuel is plac'd
 In an increasing train, some paces back,
 To kindle slowly, and approach the youth,
 With more than native terror. See, it burns! 
He gazes on the growing flame, and calls
 For "water, water!" The small boon's deny'd. 
E'en Christians throng each other, to behold
 The different alterations of his face,
 As the hot death approaches. (Oh, shame, shame
 Upon the followers of Jesus! shame
 On him that dares avow a God!) He writhes,
 While down his breast glide the unpity'd tears,
 And in their sockets strain their scorched balls. 
 "Burn, burn me quick! I cannot die!" he cries:
 "Bring fire more close!" The planters heed him not,
 But still prolonging Luco's torture, threat
 Their trembling slaves around. His lips are dry,
 His senses seem to quiver, e'er they quit
 His frame for ever, rallying strong, then driv'n
 From the tremendous conflict. Sight no more
 Is Luco's, his parch'd tongue is ever mute;
 Yet in his soul his Incilanda stays,
 Till both escape together. Turn, my muse,
 From this sad scene; lead Bristol's milder soul
 To where the solitary spirit roves,
 Wrapt in the robe of innocence, to shades
 Where pity breathing in the gale, dissolves
 The mind, when fancy paints such real woe. 

Now speak, ye Christians (who for gain enslave
 A soul like Luco's, tearing her from joy
 In life's short vale; and if there be a hell,
 As ye believe, to that ye thrust her down,
 A blind, involuntary victim), where
 Is your true essence of religion? where
 Your proofs of righteousness, when ye conceal
 The knowledge of the Deity from those
 Who would adore him fervently? Your God
 Ye rob of worshippers, his altars keep
 Unhail'd, while driving from the sacred font
 The eager slave, lest he should hope in Jesus. 

Is this your piety? Are these your laws,
 Whereby the glory of the Godhead spreads
 O'er barb'rous climes? Ye hypocrites, disown
 The Christian name, nor shame its cause: yet where
 Shall souls like yours find welcome? Would the Turk,
 Pagan, or wildest Arab, ope their arms
 To gain such proselytes? No; he that owns
 The name of Mussulman would start, and shun
 Your worse than serpent touch; he frees his slave
 Who turns to Mahomet. The Spaniard stands
 Your brighter contrast; he condemns the youth
 For ever to the mine; but ere the wretch
 Sinks to the deep domain, the hand of Faith
 Bathes his faint temples in the sacred stream,
 Bidding his spirit hope. Briton, dost thou
 Act up to this? If so, bring on thy slaves
 To Calv'ry's mount, raise high their kindred souls
 To him who died to save them: this alone
 Will teach them calmly to obey thy rage,
 And deem a life of misery but a day,
 To long eternity. Ah, think how soon
 Thine head shall on earth's dreary pillow lie,
 With thy poor slaves, each silent, and unknown
 To his once furious neighbour. Think how swift
 The sands of time ebb out, for him and thee. 
Why groans that Indian youth, in burning chains
 Suspended o'er the beach? The lab'ring sun
 Strikes from his full meridian on the slave
 Whose arms are blister'd by the heated iron,
 Which still corroding, seeks the bone. What crime
 Merits so dire a death? Another gasps
 With strongest agony, while life declines
 From recent amputation. Gracious God!
 Why thus in mercy let thy whirlwinds sleep
 O'er a vile race of Christians, who profane
 Thy glorious attributes? Sweep them from earth,
 Or check their cruel pow'r: the savage tribes
 Are angels when compared to brutes like these. 

Advance, ye Christians, and oppose my strain:
 Who dares condemn it? Prove from laws divine,
 From deep philosophy, or social love,

That ye derive your privilege. I scorn
 The cry of Av'rice, or the trade that drains
 A fellow-creature's blood: bid Commerce plead
 Her publick good, her nation's many wants,
 Her sons thrown idly on the beach, forbade
 To seize the image of their God and sell it: —
 I'll hear her voice, and Virtue's hundred tongues
 Shall sound against her. Hath our public good
 Fell rapine for its basis? Must our wants
 Find their supply in murder? Shall the sons
 Of Commerce shiv'ring stand, if not employ'd
 Worse than the midnight robber? Curses fall
 On the destructive system that shall need
 Such base supports! Doth England need them? No;
 Her laws, with prudence, hang the meagre thief
 That from his neighbour steals a slender sum,
 Tho' famine drove him on. O'er him the priest,
 Beneath the fatal tree, laments the crime,
 Approves the law, and bids him calmly die. 
Say, doth this law, that dooms the thief, protect
 The wretch who makes another's life his prey,
 By hellish force to take it at his will? 
Is this an English law, whose guidance fails
 When crimes are swell'd to magnitude so vast,
 That Justice dare not scan them? Or does Law
 Bid Justice an eternal distance keep
 From England's great tribunal, when the slave
 Calls loud on Justice only? Speak, ye few
 Who fill Britannia's senate, and are deem'd
 The fathers of your country! Boast your laws,
 Defend the honour of a land so fall'n,
 That Fame from ev'ry battlement is flown,
 And Heathens start, e'en at a Christian's name. 

Hail, social love! true soul of order, hail! 
Thy softest emanations, pity, grief,
 Lively emotion, sudden joy, and pangs,
 Too. deep for language, are thy own: then rise,
 Thou gentle angel! spread thy silken wings
 O'er drowsy man, breathe in his soul, and give
 Her God-like pow'rs thy animating force,
 To banish Inhumanity. Oh, loose
 The fetters of his mind, enlarge his views,
 Break down for him the bound of avarice, lift
 His feeble faculties beyond a world
 To which he soon must prove a stranger! Spread
 Before his ravish'd eye the varied tints
 Of future glory; bid them live to Fame,
 Whose banners wave for ever. Thus inspired,
 All that is great, and good, and sweetly mild,
 Shall fill his noble bosom. He shall melt,
 Yea, by thy sympathy unseen, shall feel
 Another's pang: for the lamenting maid
 His heart shall heave a sigh; with the old slave
 (Whose head is bent with sorrow) he shall cast
 His eye back on the joys of youth, and say,
 "Thou once couldst feel, as I do, love's pure bliss;
" Parental fondness, and the dear returns
 "Of filial tenderness were thine, till torn
" From the dissolving scene.  "— Oh, social love,
 Thou universal good, thou that canst fill
 The vacuum of immensity, and live
 In endless void! thou that in motion first
 Set'st the long lazy atoms, by thy force
 Quickly assimilating, and restrain'd
 By strong attraction; touch the soul of man;
 Subdue him; make a fellow-creature's woe
 His own by heart-felt sympathy, whilst wealth
 Is made subservient to his soft disease. 

And when thou hast to high perfection wrought
 This mighty work, say, "such is Bristol's soul." 
