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• 1 2024-08-02T15:09:00+00:00 Poem: 'The Slave's Last Hour', by Sarah J. Williams (English MS 415/126) 30 plain 2024-08-06T10:39:22+00:00 1833-05-11
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  The Slave's Last Hour.

  
  I saw a spot in India's burning clime.
  Thereon the shadow of a tree did fall
  With grateful shelter. It was evening time.
  The hour of rest was coming fast, with all
  The stillness and "the beauty of repose"
  Which Nature grants unto the meanest thing
  That seeketh slumber at the long day's close.
  A weary slave his feeble form did fling
  
  Down on that green, cool sod, to wait for death.
  There was a calm upon his brow as tho'
  His spirit then had done with all beneath,
  Had suffered his_^^its last pang of mortal woe.
  As yet the deep-toned gong, or crackling scourge.
  Had told not that the day of work was done,
  And sunded[?] but the drooping slaves to urge.
  To further toil, far from that dying one.
  
  No hand was near to close his failing eye,
  No human voice to speak one parting word;
  Yet did the breeze of Heaven pass gently by
  And tuneful sounds from the deep glen were ^heard
  Yet was he not forsaken, nor alone
  In that brief hour, life's sweetest and its last;
  For his low whispers told his thoughts were gone
  Back to the regions of the shadowy past.
  
  If memory[?] aroused her powers to show
  In one dark, dread review his all of life,
  It was but that his parties soul might know
  The loveliness of peace, from that long strife
  If she returned once more the crowded mart,
  And all his spirit in that scene had born
  The hammer's fall that severed heart, from heart,
  The jest, the laugh, the contumely, the seven
  
  If she recalled again his mother's tears
  Leaving her children for the long, long day,
  And he who soothed awhile his early years,
  Children who might not then his care repay.
  'Twas that his spirit might ascend above
  In warmer thankfulness that time was o'er,
  And feel in all the strength of blighted love
  How much Eternity might soon restore.
  
  (So Where is the man who bears not in his heart
  Some hope of future life beyond the tomb;
  Of meetings where the loved shall never part
  Of a long rest, and an eternal home?)
  'Twas thus he spake. "Mother 'tis nightfall now,
  Hush thy last child once more unto his rest.
  "Young partner of my griefs: why weepest thou,
  "Are not one children safe upon thy breast?
  
  "Seest thou the tyrant? he who shed our blood
  "In reckless vengeance. Aye we now may brook
  "Unmoved his frown, who hath so often stood
  "Unmoved upon our agonies to look.
  "If it be true as some have dared to say,
  "That Christ will render unto each his due,
  "Vainly may he regret in that last day
  "Deeds which Eternity can not undo.
  
  Faintly upon the ear those last words came,
  Meekly his dim eyes closed, and then he smiled
  And grasped a few dead leaves. Then he became
  Silent again, and quiet as a child,
  A little child that sleeps the happy sleep
  Of innocence upon its Mother's breast.
  She damp earth was his pillow, but to deep
  Was his soul's rest _^^peace for aught to break his rest.
  
  The shades grew darker round that lonely spot,
  The wind blew chilly from that woody glen,
  It mattered naught. Nature had harmed him not
  And he was then beyond the reach of men.
  
  S J W
  
  
  
  Mansfield May 11th 1833
  
  Dear Madam
  I have been practically engaged in
  the service of the Slaves, by assisting some other ladies
  to obtain signatures to a petition in their behalf and this
  with an attack of influenza has prevented my attending
  sooner to your friendly communication. As you
  mentioned that your work would not be completed in
  less than a fortnight, I ventured to delay my reply till
  I can't prepare another poem. If you can conveniently
  place it immediately after "The Planter's Last Hour"
  I hope it _^^will show something of a contrast.
  Considering the religious disadvantages under which the
  slaves labour I did not think it would be proper to repress[?]
  one of them as having a confirmed expectation of the first
  appearance of our Lord to judge mankind.
  With regard to the alteration you suggested in the
  other poem I think the one line might be written
  "His dark brow pillowed in deep silence then"
  If you think that would be an improvement.
  My rebellions Muse will not suggest any syllable
  that could be inserted in the last line without consider
  ably weakening it. I hope if trafficèd be printed with the long
  accent over the e it will not be mistaken. Perhaps as
  both cannot be altered you will think it better neither
  should. I am not sure whether it would be correct to have
  words so near to each other, one rendered two syllables and the
  the other three, but this I will leave to your judgement.
  I should have been glad if I could have altered both lines.
  I am afraid you will observe many corrections, for I
  am so ill as only to be able to copy a few versus of a line
  from the rough manuscript which none but myself
  can dicipher. I have only to add, that if at any time
  I can lend a similar assistance to any of your benevolent
  design I shall be happy to be called upon.
  I remain Dear Madam
  Yours respectfully
  S. J. Williams
  
  Perhaps it will be needful to put a note connected with the
  word "scourge" I should have liked a word that would have
  expressed the sound better than "crackling".
  --------
  * The Slaves on the Plantations are summoned to their work
  by the sounding of the gong on the cracking of the whip whose
  last[?] is said to resemble the firing of a pistol.  These[?] are sometimes
  meant[?] to announce the time of meals or of retiring
  [written crosswise:] Monday[?]. I had hoped to have been able to day to write a
  clearer copy, but finding myself worse rather than better 
  I can only hope you will be able to read this.
  
  [addressed:]
  Mrs. Rawson
  Jos^h Read Esq^r
  Wincobank Hall
  near Sheffield
  
  single
  
  [postmark:]
  Mansfield | MY13 | 18 3