"He Being Dead Yet Speaketh", by Edward Henry Abney
Vast are the plains, and rich the teeming soil
Where labour reaps no solace from her toil;
Fair is the clime, which dawns on Pity's sleep,
And mocks their anguish while the sufferers weep;
Where 'neath the scourge they wail their abject lot,
And sigh unblest, unpitied, and forgot.
But shall I say, forgot, when one pure breast
Heaved for their sorrows, mournfully opprest?
Whose fearless words and dauntless ardour woke
A slumbering sympathy for Afric's yoke,
That shall not cease on Briton's sea-girt shore,
Till Slavery's chain shall gall the slave no more.
Aye! then the first free orisons of praise,
The ransomed negro to his God shall raise;
And bless His love who to his champion gave
The heart to pity, and the hand to save.
What, though amid the mansions of the blest,
His spirit shares a bright and glorious rest?
Yet still he speaks; his vast exertions crave
Our aid unwearied for the outcast slave.
Awake, my countrymen, awake to bless
The long-enthralled with long-sought happiness;
Can ye not learn, while o'er the pathless main,
Your barks are sped for commerce, wealth and gain,
That all Heaven's noblest gifts are unconfined,
Their Maker's bounty meant for all mankind?
While one above the rest, wide as the sea,
Secures the whole, -- unfettered Liberty?
Vouchsafed by Him to all -- to none denied,
Save by the avarice of British pride.
Base is the selfishness which bids you bind
Whom God created free, -- the chainless wind
That wafts your treasures wrung from hardest toil
O'er ocean's bosom, scaths your base-earned spoil;
And whispers, while it breathes, a saddening tale
Of manhood's sorrow, or of woman's wail.
Oh! blush ye not, that through the scented air
Rise the deep curses of the sufferer's prayer?
Untaught the attributes of God above, --
Unblest by knowledge of redeeming love.
Fail not your hearts with terror, when you know
That such a depth of misery and woe
Broods o'er our isle, and scatters blight around,
For mercy not dispensed when mercy's found?
O God of Mercy! hear the suppliant cry,
Which bursts from hearts full-fraught with agony!
Regard their prayer, who oft before Thy throne,
Implore compassion for the lost and lone;
Open Thine hand, and on yon injured race
Shower down the richest blessings of Thy grace;
No more may man his fellow-man oppress,
Give Liberty -- give Light -- give Holiness!
Edward Henry Abney.