Fleecy locks and black complexion Cannot forfeit Nature's claim ; Skins may differ, but affection Dwells in white and black the same. Why did all-creating Nature Make the plant for which we toil? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil. Think, ye masters, iron-hearted, Lolling at your jovial boards, Think how many backs have smarted For the sweets your cane affords. Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, Hark! He answers!-Wild tornadoes Strewing yonder sea with wrecks, Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, Are the voice with which he speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations Afric's sons should undergo, Fix'd their tyrants' habitations Where his whirlwinds answer-No. By our blood in Afric wasted, Ere our necks received the chain; By the miseries that we tasted, Crossing in your barks the main; By our sufferings, since ye brought us To the man-degrading mart, All sustain'd by patience, taught us Only by a broken heart! Deem our nation brutes no longer, PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS. Video meliora proboque, Deteriora sequor. I OWN I am shock'd at the purchase of slaves, I pity them greatly, but I must be mum, What, give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea! Besides, if we do, the French, Dutch, and Danes, A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest, —“Oh, no! He was shock'd, sir, like you, and answer'd- "You speak very fine, and you look very grave, If you will go with us, you shall have a share, If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear.' They spoke, and Tom ponder'd-"I see they will go : Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I could, "If the matter depended alone upon me, His apples might hang till they dropp'd from the tree; His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease, THE MORNING DREAM. 'Twas in the glad season of spring, Far hence to the westward I sail'd, And the fresh-blowing breeze never fail'd. In the steerage a woman I saw; Such at least was the form that she wore, Shed light, like a sun on the waves, The sweetest that ear ever heard, Thus swiftly dividing the flood, To a slave-cultured island we came, That goddess-like woman he view'd, And the moment the monster expired, Heard shouts that ascended the sky, From thousands with rapture inspired. Awaking, how could I but muse At what such a dream should betide? But soon my ear caught the glad news, Which served my weak thought for a guide, — That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves SWEET MEAT HAS SOUR SAUCE: OR, THE SLAVE-TRADER IN THE DUMPS. A TRADER I am to the African shore, But since that my trading is like to be o'er, I'll sing you a song that you ne'er heard before, Which nobody can deny, deny, Which nobody can deny. When I first heard the news it gave me a shock, Which nobody can deny. 'Tis a curious assortment of dainty regales, Here's supple-jack plenty, and store of rat-tan, Which nobody can deny. Here's padlocks and bolts, and screws for the thumbs, That squeeze them so lovingly till the blood comes; They sweeten the temper like comfits or plums, Which nobody can deny. When a Negro his head from his victuals withdraws, And clenches his teeth and thrusts out his paws, Here's a notable engine to open his jaws, Which nobody can deny. Thus going to market, we kindly prepare A pretty black cargo of African ware, For what they must meet with when they get there, Which nobody can deny. "Twould do your heart good to see 'em below Lie flat on their backs all the way as we go, Like sprats on a gridiron, scores in a row, Which nobody can deny. |