The Dying Negress, by Charlotte Elliott
(Written after hearing Mr. Buxton's reply to Mr. Canning's speech, March, 1824.)
[authorial note: This poem ought to have been placed in the former part of the volume, but it was not received in time.]
Kind Companion! cease to mourn me,
Not for Leila smite thy breast;
Fiercer pangs than these have torn me,
Ending not like these in rest.
Weep no more to see me suffer,
On this burning sand laid low;--
Can the grasp of Death be rougher
Than these chains which gall me now?
Yesternight my tears were steeping
Slavery's coarse and scanty food,
Guilty of the crime of weeping,
I have paid each tear with blood.
Now, in vain his threats will urge me,
Hark! the blood-stained whip resounds!
But the lash no more can scourge me;
Death is binding up my wounds.
Yet, though they are fresh and bleeding,
And for me no cure remains,
There are tortures far exceeding
Those the outward frame sustains.
Scars deface my limbs all over;
Burning brands have scorched my skin;
But, couldst thou my heart uncover,
Wounds more painful bleed within.
Where are those I fondly cherished,
Husband, children, once my own?
May they all, ere this, have perished,
Nor a lot like mine have known!
Till the fierce Oppressor tore us
From our native land so fair,
Life's gay prospect smiled before us; --
White men, then, were strangers there.
But, at midnight, they descended,
Like the dread tornado's sweep; --
Seized us sleeping, undefended,
Bore us to their dungeon-ship.
Swift we flew, with rapid motion,
Chained together, o'er the wave;
Wildly gazing on the ocean,
Longing there to find a grave.
Once, I burst the chains that held me,
Resolute to plunge and die;
But my husband's voice withheld me --
And I heard my children's cry.
To this land of woe they brought us,
Weak, dispirited, forlorn;
Slavery's lessons soon were taught us, --
Labour, stripes, injustice, scorn.
Still one gleam of comfort brightened
For a time poor Leila's fate;
Even Slavery's yoke was lightened,
While we jointly bore its weight.
Soon this solace was denied me; --
Husband, babes, were torn away; --
And the tyrant dared deride me
While I knelt to weep and pray.
Since the fearful hour we parted,
Though the frenzy left my brain,
Leila, sad, and broken-hearted,
Never raised her head again.
Oft, in Memory's vivid painting,
I behold them standing near;
Oft I see them bleeding--fainting;--
Oft their cries of anguish hear.
O, ye loved ones!--could I view you
Once before I yield my breath!--
Still do pain and grief pursue you;
Or are ye at rest in death ?
Once they told me there existed,
In some realm beyond the sea,
Patriots, in our cause enlisted,
Who had vowed the Slave to free.
Oh! this thought assuaged my sadness;
For my babes I wept no more:--
Oft my heart exclaimed with gladness,
"Freedom is for them in store!"
[A Missionary enters, and addresses her.
Hark! What unknown voice is speaking,
While my eyelids close in death?--
Though poor Leila's heart is breaking,
Words like these can stay my breath.
[She listens, while the Missionary reads from the Bible and prays; then says:--
Why, O why did Leila never
Hear this heavenly news before?
Why must Death my life-strings sever
Now I long to live once more?
Now I hear, with awe and wonder,
Of a God who loves to save;
And that He who wakes the thunder
Pities e'en the Negro-slave.
Will the white man's Saviour bless us?
Can his name indeed be Love?--
While they torture and oppress us,
Can He see them from above?
[She listens again, while the Missionary converses.
Yes!-the day of light is dawning;
It will shine o'er Leila's grave!
She has heard, in death, the warning:--
Christ has freed the Negro-slave!
Charlotte Elliott.
Westfield Lodge,
Brighton.