The Lot of the Slave, by Richard Cecil
[The following, though not, strictly speaking, "a true story," is founded on statements not to be disproved; and narratives well authenticated would furnish many other particulars, of at least as dark a character.]
Loved, as a mother loves the babe she bore,
Watches, toils, sighs, and loves it but the more,
An infant negro, in the Westem isles,
Springs into life; -- the captive-mother smiles:
For love will smile, however brief the joy;
And her's is brief: -- O might she tend her boy!
From nature's fountain due supplies to yield
Might she but pause and quit the weary field!
No: -- ere his birth, -- when fast her hour drew on,
Burdened and faint, her task must yet be done,
Short respite, short repose that frame must feel;
Can she not stand to labour? -- she must kneel.
Some interval at length even avarice gave,
In pity? -- nay; his property to save;
But that is past, and she again must bear
The sun, the lash, and to a stranger's care,
(An aged negress for the field unfit,)
Till day decline, her nurseling must commit;
Nor dare a mother's fondness to express,
Till nature droop, heart-sick with weariness.
Yet even thus, some comfort she derives
From every sight of him; he grows, he thrives,
Her hourly solace. Who -- what fiend could bear
From her fond arm that one delight to tear?
Ah! 'tis her owner's property, not her's,
And avarice with soft pity ne'er confers.
In want of gold, he sees a fit resource
In that young slave, and with no more remorse,
Or even less, than he who sells his horse,
He names a sum, -- 'tis paid, -- the deed is done, --
Tears, prayers, avail her not, -- the child is gone.
Frantic she shrieks, she howls in agony
Around her master's dwelling. That shrill cry,
Can he not silence it? -- it breaks his sleep;
Is there no remedy? -- there is; -- the whip!
This is the anodyne he deems the best,
To soothe her spirit? -- no, -- to bring him rest.
And from that hour, perchance, his court she trod
In stillness, -- but "her cry went up to God."
He, the poor infant-victim, wept not long;
Self-interest bade them shew a thing so young
Such tenderness as even the young of brutes
Miss not, -- that care the owner's purpose suits;
Though times there are, when cruelty's fell reign
Hears even the voice of interest plead in vain;
When gain, so fondly sought, less joy imparts,
Than torturing human limbs and human hearts.
His lot was milder, if it be more mild
To spare a slave than slay him when a child:
His childhood past, he grew a hardy boy,
And entered early on a slave's employ;
Early and long inured to daily pain,
To dress the stubborn soil, and plant the cane;
Dull, heartless, hopeless toil, that nought repays
For all the waste of life's first, fairest days.
Smiling in beauty all the land may be,
But can an eye enslaved that beauty see,
Or seeing, taste? -- it smiles but on the free.
Toiled he in hope, the thought of future gain
Might nerve his soul long sorrow to sustain;
Saw he in distant prospect, freedom's light,
That beam, though faint, might cheer his aching sight;
But should his hands, when resting from the field,
Be active yet, and should the effort yield
Some humble fruit -- precarious rights are his!
His little all a lawless white may seize,
And if he dared defend it, with his life
He pays the forfeit of that blameless strife.
Or were he freed, unless the proof appear
In every point indisputably clear,
Though guiltless of a fault, his doom may be
A fresh, remediless captivity.
But trained from childhood, William suffered not,
In all their weight, the hardships of his lot;
Stung by no memory of a happier day, --
A Paradise for ever passed away, --
Healthy and strong, his task accomplished well,
On him the whip's dread vengeance rarely fell;
Though through the gang oft sounds its fierce assault
On all who loiter, -- feebleness their fault;
And he not quite escaped, but his dark day
Of misery had not dawned, -- 'twas on its way.
It chanced among the females, one there was
Whom William loved, for Nature's bounteous laws
Even Slavery cannot wholly set aside;
Their love was mutual; she became his bride,
And in each other they were happy; true,
The bonds were slightly knit that joined the two;
The marriage covenant, if the owner please,
Whatever rites have sealed it, vanishes.
But they were faithful, and 'twas their's to prove
The sweetness first, and then the grief of love.
Fanny, for William's sake, performed with zeal
The allotted task, afraid lest he should feel
The pang of sympathy, more keen, more deep
Than even his own beneath the ruthless whip.
And love, long time, sustained her, but at length
Failed to supply the want of firmer strength.
Just then, when first her energy declined,
Their manager -- a wretch of foulest mind, --
Had eyed her wantonly, and strove to gain
Her favour, but enraged to sue in vain,
Vowed inly dire revenge; his victim soon
Proved all its fury; on one sultry noon
Faintly she cast the hoe, the driver's scourge
Fell heavily her lingering hand to urge.
She strove, but failed again, -- a fiercer stroke
Crimsoned the lash, -- poor William saw and spoke:
His words were hasty, and were soon conveyed
To the stern manager. "Bring both!" he said.
They stand before him; for the other, each
Pleads strongly, though in short and broken speech.
Vain cry! can he compassionate their smart?
He feel the groan that bursts a Negro's heart?
His malice smiles to see the whip fulfil
Its fiery office and his barbarous will;
And yet unsatisfied, his deadly hate
Resolves the faithful pair to separate.
But Fanny from that hour no more revived;
She sickened, drooped, and perished. -- William lived, --
But, O, how changed! how spiritless! -- his eye
Was cold and dim; his step moved heavily;
Needless before, the stimulating scourge
Now scarce avails his tardiness to urge.
Slow steals his life in wretchedness away,
Till dawns the long-desired, the closing day.
There is a balm that o'er the bruised heart
Whose anguish mocks the power of healing art,
Sheds ease, hope, gladness, heaven: -- there is a name
Thrills through the penitent's dissolving frame,
Foretelling endless rest, the gift of Him --
The Son of Man, -- the Son of God, the stream
Of whose rich blood the troubled soul can clear
From its foul burden, guilt, and shame, and fear.
Feels he that balm, transforming all his lot?
Knows he that name? -- Alas! he knows it not.
Heralds of peace had visited that isle,
Charged with the news that makes even Slavery smile,
But the white rulers held the theme unmeet
For Negro-minds, -- too, too divinely sweet!
Some had indeed been taught, but not a word
Of that inspiring news had William heard,
His Christian owner seeing little need
To teach the animal so high a creed.
Hopeless and blind, he died, and One whose eye
No thought escapes, has judged him -- righteously.
And this is Slavery! and they are men
That forge, and fix, and rivet fast the chain,
And o'er their brethren hold a tyrant's sway!
Not all a tyrant's spirit will display;
Not all will play the demon, but all may.
And that dread power, in hands however just,
Is an unwarranted, tremendous trust.
Shall a supremacy to man be given
Unquestioned, absolute, like that of Heaven?
Slavery! of all enormities the worst
Man's fall has gendered, or his madness nurst!
Earth teems with crime, and one, above the rest,
Against high Heaven uplifts its daring crest;
But War, even War, in guilt, in infamy,
In hardihood and horror, -- yields to thee!
Shame on thy bold pretence, endured so long,
Thy right to perpetrate a matchless wrong!
Drop thy proud plume, bend low thy hated brow,
The eyes of Britons scan the features now.
Thy long, dark reign is ending, -- die to be
The scorn and wonder of futurity.
Time shall be when thy annals shall appear
Unnatural fictions to the sickening ear,
Though history's faithful page can ne'er recount
Of half thy loathsome crimes the sad amount.
Perish! and may kind Heaven a world forgive
That suffered thee so many an age to live.
C.
N---.