Poems — Inside the Classic

Husht was the lute, the Hebrew ceas'd the song; Long peals of plaudits echoed from the throng; Each tongue the liberal words of praise repaid, On every cheek a smile applauding play'd; The rival Bard advanced, he struck the string, And pour'd the loftier song to Persia's King.

Why should the wearying cares of state Oppress the Monarch with their weight? Alike to him if Peace shall bless The multitude with happiness; Alike to him if frenzied War Careers triumphant on the embattled plain, And rolling on o'er myriads slain, With gore and wounds shall clog his scythed car. What tho' the tempest rage! no sound Of the deep thunder shakes his distant throne, And the red flash that spreads destruction round, Reflects a glorious splendour on the Crown.

Where is the Man who with ennobling pride Beholds not his own nature? where is he Who but with deep amazement awe allied Must muse the mysteries of the human mind, The miniature of Deity. For Man the vernal clouds descending Shower down their fertilizing rain, For Man the ripen'd harvest bending Waves with soft murmur o'er the plenteous plain. He spreads the sail on high, The rude gale wafts him o'er the main; For him the winds of Heaven subservient blow, Earth teems for him, for him the waters flow, He thinks, and wills, and acts, a Deity below!

Where is the King who with elating pride Sees not this Man--this godlike Man his Slave? Mean are the mighty by the Monarch's side, Alike the wife, alike the brave With timid step and pale, advance, And tremble at the royal glance; Suspended millions watch his breath Whose smile is happiness, whose frown is death.

Why goes the Peasant from that little cot, Where PEACE and LOVE have blest his humble life? In vain his agonizing wife With tears bedews her husband's face, And clasps him in a long and last embrace; In vain his children round his bosom creep, And weep to see their mother weep, Fettering their father with their little arms; What are to him the wars alarms? What are to him the distant foes? He at the earliest dawn of day To daily labor went his way; And when he saw the sun decline, He sat in peace beneath his vine:-- The king commands, the peasant goes, From all he lov'd on earth he flies, And for his monarch toils, and fights, and bleeds, and dies.

What tho' yon City's castled wall Casts o'er the darken'd plain its crested shade? What tho' their Priests in earnest terror call On all their host of Gods to aid? Vain is the bulwark, vain the tower; In vain her gallant youths expose Their breasts, a bulwark, to the foes. In vain at that tremendous hour, Clasp'd in the savage soldier's reeking arms, Shrieks to tame Heaven the violated Maid. By the rude hand of Ruin scatter'd round Their moss-grown towers shall spread the desart ground. Low shall the mouldering palace lie, Amid the princely halls the grass wave high, And thro' the shatter'd roof descend the inclement sky.

Gay o'er the embattled plain Moves yonder warrior train, Their banners wanton on the morning gale! Full on their bucklers beams the rising ray, Their glittering helmets flash a brighter day, The shout of war rings echoing o'er the vale: Far reaches as the aching eye can strain The splendid horror of their wide array. Ah! not in vain expectant, o'er Their glorious pomp the Vultures soar! Amid the Conqueror's palace high Shall sound the song of victory: Long after journeying o'er the plain The Traveller shall with startled eye See their white bones then blanched by many a winter sky.

Lord of the Earth! we will not raise The Temple to thy bounded praise. For thee no victim need expire, For thee no altar blaze with hallowed fire! The burning city flames for thee-- Thine altar is the field of victory! Thy sacred Majesty to bless Man a self-offer'd victim freely flies; To thee he sacrifices Happiness, And Peace, and Love's endearing ties, To thee a Slave he lives, to thee a Slave he dies.

Husht was the lute, the Hebrew ceas'd to sing; The shout rush'd forth--for ever live the King! Loud was the uproar, as when Rome's decree Pronounc'd Achaia once again was free; Assembled Greece enrapt with fond belief Heard the false boon, and bless'd the villain Chief; Each breast with Freedom's holy ardor glows, From every voice the cry of rapture rose; Their thundering clamors burst the astonish'd 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 ador'd, Joy sparkled in the Monarch's conscious eyes, And his pleas'd pride already doom'd the prize.

Silent they saw Zorobabel advance: Quick on Apame shot his timid glance, With downward eye he paus'd a moment mute, And with light finger touch'd the softer lute. Apame knew the Hebrew's grateful cause, And bent her head and sweetly smil'd applause.

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 disgrac'd 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, His wandering eye with meaning fraught, Sits he alone in silent thought? Silent he sits; for far away His passion'd soul delights to stray; Recluse he roves and strives to shun All human-kind because he loves but One!

Yes, King of Persia, thou art blest; But not because the sparkling bowl To rapture lifts thy waken'd soul [1] But not because of Power possest, Not that the Nations dread thy nod, And Princes reverence thee their earthly God, Even on a Monarch's solitude Care the black Spectre will intrude, The bowl brief pleasure can bestow, The Purple cannot shield from Woe. But King of Persia thou art blest, For Heaven who rais'd thee thus the world above Has made thee happy in Apame's love!

Oh! I have seen his fond looks trace Each angel feature of her face, Rove o'er her form with eager eye, And sigh and gaze, and gaze and sigh. Lo! from his brow with mimic frown, Apame takes the sacred crown; Her faultless form, her lovely face Add to the diadem new grace And subject to a Woman's laws Darius sees and smiles applause!

He ceas'd, and silent still remain'd the throng Whilst rapt attention own'd the power of song. Then loud as when the wintry whirlwinds blow From ev'ry voice the thundering plaudits flow; Darius smil'd, Apame's sparkling eyes Glanc'd on the King, and Woman won the prize.

Now silent sat the expectant crowd, alone The victor Hebrew gaz'd not on the throne; With deeper hue his cheek distemper'd glows, With statelier stature, loftier now he rose; Heavenward he gaz'd, regardless of the throng, And pour'd with awful voice sublimer song.

Ancient of Days! Eternal Truth! one hymn One holier strain the Bard shall raise to thee, Thee Powerful! Thee Benevolent! Thee Just! Friend! Father! All in All! the Vines rich blood, The Monarch's might, and Woman's conquering charms,-- These shall we praise alone? Oh ye who sit Beneath your vine, and quaff at evening hour The healthful bowl, remember him whose dews, Whose rains, whose sun, matur'd the growing fruit, Creator and Preserver! Reverence Him, O thou who from thy throne dispensest life And death, for He has delegated power. And thou shalt one day at the throne of God Render most strict account! O ye who gaze Enrapt on Beauty's fascinating form, Gaze on with love, and loving Beauty, learn To shun abhorrent all the mental eye Beholds deform'd and foul; for so shall Love Climb to the Source of Virtue. God of Truth! All-Just! All-Mighty! I should ill deserve Thy noblest gift, the gift divine of song, If, so content with ear-deep melodies [2] To please all profitless, I did not pour Severer strains; of Truth--eternal Truth, Unchanging Justice, universal Love. Such strains awake the soul to loftiest thoughts, Such strains the Blessed Spirits of the Good Waft, grateful incense, to the Halls of Heaven.

The dying notes still murmur'd on the string, When from his throne arose the raptur'd King. About to speak he stood, and wav'd his hand, And all expectant sat the obedient band.

Then just and gen'rous, thus the Monarch cries, "Be thine Zorobabel the well earned prize. "The purple robe of state thy form shall fold, "The beverage sparkle in thy cup of gold; "The golden couch, the car, and honor'd chain, "Requite the merits of thy favor'd strain, "And rais'd supreme the ennobled race among "Be call'd MY COUSIN for the victor song. "Nor these alone the victor song shall bless, "Ask what thou wilt, and what thou wilt, possess." "Fall'n is Jerusalem!" the Hebrew cries. And patriot anguish fills his streaming eyes, "Hurl'd to the earth by Rapine's vengeful rod, "Polluted lies the temple of our God, "Far in a foreign land her sons remain, "Hear the keen taunt, and drag the captive chain: "In fruitless woe they wear the wearying years, "And steep the bread of bitterness in tears. "O Monarch, greatest, mildest, best of men, "Restore us to those ruin'd walls again! "Allow our race to rear that sacred dome, "To live in liberty, and die at Home."

So spake Zorobabel--thus Woman's praise Avail'd again Jerusalem to raise, Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod, And freed the Nation best belov'd of God.

[Footnote 1: text showed "foul" which we think was a long s transferred to the modern edition by mistake. Gutenberg Proofreading.]

[Footnote 2: This expression is from OWEN FELLTHAM.]

I am Innocent of this Blood, SEE YE TO IT!

When first the Abolition of the SLAVE-TRADE was agitated in England, 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 they thought it a sacrifice) persuaded themselves that Parliament would do all, and that individual efforts were no longer necessary. Thus ended the one attempt; and the duplicity with which Mr. Wilberforce has been amused, and the Slave-Merchants satisfied, has now effectually destroyed the other.

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: by the vindictive justice of the Africans, or by the civilized Christians finding it their interest to be humane.

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.

Hold your mad hands! for ever on your plain Must the gorged vulture clog his beak with blood? For ever must your Nigers tainted flood Roll to the ravenous shark his banquet slain? Hold your mad hands! what daemon prompts to rear The arm of Slaughter? on your savage shore Can hell-sprung Glory claim the feast of gore, With laurels water'd by the widow's tear Wreathing his helmet crown? lift high the spear! And like the desolating whirlwinds sweep, Plunge ye yon bark of anguish in the deep; For the pale fiend, cold-hearted Commerce there Breathes his gold-gender'd pestilence afar, And calls to share the prey his kindred Daemon War.

Why dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hair, And to the deaf sea pour thy frantic cries? Before the gale the laden vessel flies; The Heavens all-favoring smile, the breeze is fair; Hark to the clamors of the exulting crew! Hark how their thunders mock the patient skies! Why dost thou shriek and strain thy red-swoln eyes As the white sail dim lessens from thy view? Go pine in want and anguish and despair, There is no mercy found in human-kind-- Go Widow to thy grave and rest thee there! But may the God of Justice bid the wind Whelm that curst bark beneath the mountain wave, And bless with Liberty and Death the Slave!

Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops run Down his dark cheek; hold--hold thy merciless hand, Pale tyrant! for beneath thy hard command O'erwearied Nature sinks. The scorching Sun, As pityless as proud Prosperity, Darts on him his full beams; gasping he lies Arraigning with his looks the patient skies, While that inhuman trader lifts on high The mangling scourge. Oh ye who at your ease Sip the blood-sweeten'd beverage! thoughts like these Haply ye scorn: I thank thee Gracious God! That I do feel upon my cheek the glow Of indignation, when beneath the rod A sable brother writhes in silent woe.

'Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep As undisturb'd as Justice! but no more The wretched Slave, as on his native shore, Rests on his reedy couch: he wakes to weep! Tho' thro' the toil and anguish of the day No tear escap'd him, not one suffering groan Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone In bitterness; thinking that far away Tho' the gay negroes join the midnight song, Tho' merriment resounds on Niger's shore, She whom he loves far from the chearful throng Stands sad, and gazes from her lowly door With dim grown eye, silent and woe-begone, And weeps for him who will return no more.

Did then the bold Slave rear at last the Sword Of Vengeance? drench'd he deep its thirsty blade In the cold bosom of his tyrant lord? Oh! who shall blame him? thro' the midnight shade Still o'er his tortur'd memory rush'd the thought Of every past delight; his native grove, Friendship's best joys, and Liberty and Love, 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.

High in the air expos'd the Slave is hung To all the birds of Heaven, their living food! He groans not, tho' awaked by that fierce Sun New torturers live to drink their parent blood! He groans not, tho' 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

O thou who from the mountain's height Roll'st down thy clouds with all their weight Of waters to old Niles majestic tide; Or o'er the dark sepulchral plain Recallest thy Palmyra's ancient pride, Amid whose desolated domes Secure the savage chacal roams, Where from the fragments of the hallow'd fane The Arabs rear their miserable homes!

Hear Genius hear thy children's cry! Not always should'st 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 torches light Flows radiant thro' the awaken'd night.

Ah, linger not to hear the song! Genius avenge thy children's wrong! The Daemon COMMERCE 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 wrong 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 Christians 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, By those who there imprison'd die Where the black herd promiscuous lie, By the scourges blacken'd o'er And stiff and hard with human gore, By every groan of deep distress By every curse of wretchedness, By all the train of Crimes that flow From the hopelessness of Woe, By every drop of blood bespilt, By Afric's wrongs and Europe's guilt, Awake! arise! avenge!

And thou hast heard! and o'er their blood-fed plains Swept thine avenging hurricanes; And bade thy storms with whirlwind roar Dash their proud navies on the shore; And where their armies claim'd the fight Wither'd the warrior's might; And o'er the unholy host with baneful breath There Genius thou hast breath'd the gales of Death.

So perish still the robbers of mankind! What tho' from Justice bound and blind Inhuman Power has snatch'd the sword! What tho' thro' many an ignominious age That Fiend with desolating rage The tide of carnage pour'd! Justice shall yet unclose her eyes, Terrific yet in wrath arise, And trample on the tyrant's breast, And make Oppresion groan opprest.

To my own MINIATURE PICTURE taken at two years of age.

And I was once like this! that glowing cheek Was mine, those pleasure-sparkling eyes, that brow Smooth as the level lake, when not a breeze Dies o'er the sleeping surface! twenty years Have wrought strange alteration! Of the friends Who once so dearly prized this miniature, And loved it for its likeness, some are gone To their last home; and some, estranged in heart, Beholding me with quick-averted glance Pass on the other side! But still these hues Remain unalter'd, and these features wear The look of Infancy and Innocence. I search myself in vain, and find no trace Of what I was: those lightly-arching lines Dark and o'erhanging now; and that mild face Settled in these strong lineaments!--There were Who form'd high hopes and flattering ones of thee Young Robert! for thine eye was quick to speak Each opening feeling: should they not have known When the rich rainbow on the morning cloud Reflects its radiant dies, the husbandman Beholds the ominous glory sad, and fears Impending storms? they augur'd happily, For thou didst love each wild and wonderous tale Of faery fiction, and thine infant tongue Lisp'd with delight the godlike deeds of Greece And rising Rome; therefore they deem'd forsooth That thou shouldst tread PREFERMENT'S pleasant path. Ill-judging ones! they let thy little feet Stray in the pleasant paths of POESY, And when thou shouldst have prest amid the crowd There didst thou love to linger out the day Loitering beneath the laurels barren shade. SPIRIT of SPENSER! was the wanderer wrong? This little picture was for ornament Design'd, to shine amid the motley mob Of Fashion and of Folly,--is it not More honour'd by this solitary song?

What! and not one to heave the pious sigh! Not one whose sorrow-swoln and aching eye For social scenes, for life's endearments fled, Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the dead! Poor wretched Outcast! I will weep for thee, And sorrow for forlorn humanity. Yes I will weep, but not that thou art come To the stern Sabbath of the silent tomb: For squalid Want, and the black scorpion Care, Heart-withering fiends! shall never enter there. I sorrow for the ills thy life has known As thro' the world's long pilgrimage, alone, Haunted by Poverty and woe-begone, Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on: Thy youth in ignorance and labour past, And thine old age all barrenness and blast! Hard was thy Fate, which, while it doom'd to woe, Denied thee wisdom to support the blow; And robb'd of all its energy thy mind, Ere yet it cast thee on thy fellow-kind, Abject of thought, the victim of distress, To wander in the world's wide wilderness.

Poor Outcast sleep in peace! the wintry storm Blows bleak no more on thine unshelter'd form; Thy woes are past; thou restest in the tomb;-- I pause--and ponder on the days to come.

written on the first of January, 1794

Come melancholy Moralizer--come! Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath; With me engarland now The SEPULCHRE OF TIME!