Poems by Robert Southey Part 2

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.

SONNET I

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 sh.o.r.e Can h.e.l.l-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.

SONNET II

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 G.o.d of Justice bid the wind Whelm that curst bark beneath the mountain wave, And bless with Liberty and Death the Slave!

SONNET III

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 G.o.d!

That I do feel upon my cheek the glow Of indignation, when beneath the rod A sable brother writhes in silent woe.

SONNET IV

'Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep As undisturb'd as Justice! but no more The wretched Slave, as on his native sh.o.r.e, 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 sh.o.r.e, 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.

SONNET V

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.

SONNET VI

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 d.a.m.nation 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 sh.o.r.e 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 sh.o.r.e; 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 s.n.a.t.c.h'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 Pa.s.s 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 G.o.dlike 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?

THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL

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.