SONNET IV. '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! Though through the toil and anguish of the day No tear escaped him, not one suffering groan Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone In bitterness; thinking that far away Though the gay Negroes join the midnight song, Though merriment resounds on Niger's shore, She whom he loves far from the cheerful 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 Negro rear at last the Sword Of Vengeance? drench'd he deep its thirsty blade In the hard heart of his tyrannic lord? Oh! who shall blame him? through the midnight shade Still o'er his tortured 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 exposed the Slave is hung, To all the birds of Heaven, their living food! He groans not, though awaked by that fierce Sun New tortures live to drink their parent blood! He groans not, though 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 Nile's majestic tide; Or o'er the dark sepulchral plain Recallest Carthage in her ancient pride, The Mistress of the Main; Hear, Genius, hear thy children's cry! Not always shouldst thou love to brood Where seas of Sand toss their hot surges high; Detain thee in some milder mood The palmy plains among, Where Gambia to the torch's light Flows radiant through the awaken'd night. Ah, linger not to hear the song! Pours all the horrors of his train, Lo! where the flaming village fires the skies! Arise, thy children's wrongs redress ! O'er her sick babe she bows opprest,.. By the rank infected air That taints those dungeons of despair, |