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 his Indians have been often heard to say , in their complaining moments , " God Almighty no love us well ; he be good to White man buckera ; he bid buckera burn us ; he no burn buckera . " partial 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 The Turk gives freedom to his slave on condition that he embraces Mahometism . Mussulman would start , and shun Your worse than serpent touch ; he frees his slave Who turns to Mahomet . The The Spaniard , immediately on purchasing an Indian , gives him baptism . 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 ? A coromantin slave in Jamaica ( who had frequently escaped to the mountains ) was , a few years since , doomed to have his leg cut off . A young practitioner from England ( after the surgeon of the estate had refused to be an executioner ) undertook the operation , but after the removal of the limb , on the slave's exclaiming , You buckera ! God Almightly made dat leg ; you cut it off ! You put it on again ? was so shocked , that the other surgeon was obliged to take up the vessals , apply the dressings , &c. The Negro suffered without a groan , called for his pipe , and calmly smoaked , till the absence of his attendant gave him an opportunity of tearing off his bandages , when he bled to death in an instant . Many will call this act of the Negro's stubbornness ; under such circumstances , I dare give it a more glorious epithet , and that is fortitude . 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 . "