Indignant Sentiments on National Prejudices and hatred: and on Slavery.
Он, for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumor of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war.
Might never reach me more! My ear is pain'd, My soul is sick with ev'ry day's report
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart; It does not feel for man. The nat'ral bond Of brotherhood is sever'd, as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire.
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin
Not colour'd like his own; and having pow'r T'enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interpos'd Make enemies of nations, who had else, Like kindred drops, been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And worse than all, and most to be deplor'd, As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man! And what man seeing this And having human feelings, does not blush And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation, prized above all price;
I had much rather be myself the slave, And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home-then why abroad? And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free; They touch our country and their shackles fall. That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, And let it circulate through ev'ry vein
Of all your empire; that where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.
THE MISERIES OF HUMAN LIFE.
Ah, little think the gay licentious proud, Whom pleasure, pow'r, and affluence surround; 'They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, And wanton, often cruel riot waste;
Ah little think they, while they dance along, How many feel, this very moment, death, And all the sad variety of pain!
How many sink in the devouring flood, Or more devouring flame! How many bleed, By shameful variance betwixt man and man! How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms, Shut from the common air, and common use Of their own limbs! How many drink the cup Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread Of misery! Sore pierc'd by wintry winds, How many shrink into the sordid hut Of cheerless poverty! How many shake With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse!
How many rack'd with honest passions, droop In deep retir'd distress! How many stand Around the death-bed of their dearest friends, And point the parting anguish! Thought fond
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, That one incessant struggle render life One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, Vice in his high career would stand appall'd, And heedless, rambling impulse learn to think; The conscious heart of charity would warm,, And her wide wish benevolence dilate; The social tear would rise, the social sigh; And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, Refining still, the social passions work.
UNHAPPY CLOSE OF LIFE.
How shocking must thy summons be, O Death!
To him that is at ease in his possessions! Who counting on long years of pleasure here, Is quite unfurnished for the world to come!. In that dread moment, how the frantic soul Raves round the walls of her clay tenement; Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help; But shrieks in vain! How wishfully she looks 'On all she's leaving, now no longer hers! A little longer! yet a little longer; O might she stay to wash away her stains; And fit her for the passage! Mournful sight!: Her very eyes weep blood; and ev'ry groan She heaves is big with horror. But the foe, Like a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose, Pursues her close, thro' ev'ry lane of life;
Nor misses once the track; but presses on, ,Till forc'd at last to the tremendous verge, At once she sinks to everlasting ruin!
CRUELTY TO BRUTES Censured.
I would not enter on my list of friends, (Though grac'd with polish'd manners and fine
Yet wanting sensibility,) the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. An inadvertent step may crush the snail, That crawls at evening in the public path; But he that has humanity, forewarn'd Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, And charg'd perhaps with venom, that intrudes A visitor unwelcome into scenes
Sacred to neatness and repose, th' alcove, The chamber, or refectory, may die.
A necessary act incurs no blame.
Not so, when held within their proper bounds, And guiltless of offence, they range the air, Or take their pastime in the spacious field; There they are privileg'd. And he that hunts Or harms them there, is guilty of a wrong; Disturbs th' economy of nature's realm, Who, when she form'd, design'd them an abode. The sum is this: if man's convenience, health, Or safety, interfere, his rights and claims, Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. Else they are all-the meanest things that are, As free to live and enjoy that life,
As God was free to form them at the first, Who in his sovereign wisdom, made them all.
Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons To love it too. The spring time of our years Is soon dishonour'd and defiled, in most, By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand To check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots If unrestrained into luxuriant growth, Than cruelty, most dev'lish of them all. Mercy to him that shews it, is the rule And righteous limitation of its act,
By which heaven moves in pard'ning guilty man: And he that shows none, being ripe in years, And conscious of the outrage he commits, Shall seek it, and not find it in his turn.
Yes, to deep sadness sullenly resign'd, He feels his body's bondage in his mind; Puts off his generous nature; and, to suit His manners with his fate, puts on the brute,, O most degrading of all ills: that wait On man, a mourner in his best estate! All other sorrows virtue may endure And find submission more than half a cure; Grief is itself a medicine, and bestow'd T'improve the fortitude that bears the load, To teach the wanderer, as his woes increase The path of wisdom, all whose paths are peace;; But slavery! virtue dreads it as her grave: Patience itself is meanness in a slave!
« PreviousContinue » |