Poem: 'The Planter's Last Hour', by Sarah J. Williams (English MS 415/125)
The Planter's Last Hour
I saw a chamber in th' abode of pride,With all of rest that could be bought with gold;
Where was a bed of down, high canopied,
And curtained round with damask's crimson fold.
The windows were deep veil'd, and yet a ray --
A single ray of the sweet
Thro' the dim room, and on that couch did play,
And on the face of him who laid thereon,
But he was dying -- O there was a look
On his white lips which moved convulsively,
And all his features quivered, and he shook
As if a vision met his glazing eye.
The hireling nurse was there, and serving men
Waited his bidding; yet he was alone,
Lone, for their hearts were not with him, & when
He spoke how deep and hollow was the tone
That would so soon be silent! yet tho' then
The gurgling sound of death was in his throat,
She lifted his faint voice yet once again;
It needed not a bended ear to note
His accents midst that silence most profound,
For each and every word the hush that broke
Was horribly distinct, as if it's sound
Would fain be heard for ever; thus he spoke,
"I stood within a crowded mart, I bought
"That which was there exposed for sale, which gold
"Of course made justly mine; it mattered nought
"What were the creatures that were bought and sold;
"They were but chattels. Did I treat them well,
"Or ill, or what of food and rest I gave? --
"Is that all ye would ask, or I should tell?
"Why was one tyrant and the other slave?"
"Had I the right to vest me with a power
"Unlimited, to deal out misery,
"To trust mine own frail nature with a dower
"Of such momentous import, or was I
"Free to impress my name upon his brow,
"To bend his will beneath my iron rod?
"That is the question, and that question now
"He was to me but as my dog, my steed,
"But as the tool with which I wrote his doom;
"But now he turns and asks me of that deed,
"He looks up to me from his early tomb,
"And with a face so human -- and a voice,
"A Brother's voice, even like his, who played
"With me in childhood, where free birds rejoice,
"And tinkling rills flow by near the chestnut shade.
"And hark! I hear his heart throb like my own,
"I see the life-blood rushing thro' his veins,
"Quickened by feelings I did long disown
"Or kept in
"E'en as my soul is his, that truth I find
"Now that all hath lies naked to ^my view,
"I bought him; could I tell the thing had mind?
"Immortal mind, and did I buy that too?["]
The pallidness of death came o'er his clay
He ceased -- and pressed his eye-lids close as tho'
That slave with his fixed gaze did still essay
To look upon his heart and its last throe,
His mouth grew rigid -- The expression flung
Around his unclosed lips showed he had tried
To answer to some quest, but that his tongue
Stiffened ere utterance came; -- and thus he died.
But still that clear bright gleam of sunshine ^caught
His dark brow pillowèd in silence then,
What did it there, but to betray the thought
Of him, the man who trafficèd in men.
S J Williams
Mansfield March 27th
Madam
I returned home a few days ago, after
a long absense and found a letter from Miss
H Horker[?] requesting I would contribute something
to a volume you intended publishing on "Slavery"
I have my heart so much in the cause that it would give
me great pleasure to afford any assistance in my power to
such a work, I only fear that so much time having
elapsed (as Miss H wrote on the 3d instant) it may be too
late to do so. I had no unpublished piece on the subject
by me, but have written the enclosed
you and shall be glad if it answers your purpose.
If you should wish any thing further from my pen
have the goodness to direct to me at Rev J Williams
Mansfield
I am yours respectfully
S J Williams
[addressed:]
Mrs. Wm Rawson
At Josh Read's Esqr
Wincobank
near Sheffield
[postmark:]
Mansfield | MA22 | 18 3