The Triumph of Freedom, by Elizabeth Walker
Slavery's fell reign is past -- her power is o'er,
Triumph, ye Free! -- her triumph is no more.
The long-anticipated time draws nigh,
Freedom advances in the western sky,
Sheds her bright glory toward the Indian seas,
And waves her banner o'er the Caribbees;
The tortured captive hears her thrilling voice,
Looks up -- and checks his groanings to rejoice.
Nursed in the land, where rolls the giant tide
Of sluggish Senegal through deserts wide, --
Where every tainted breeze comes tinged with death,
And Nature sickens in the poisoned breath, --
The wandering negro, 'midst these regions lone,
Thinks himself happy, though untaught, unknown;
Happy -- because the desert's faithless sand
He claims his own, his long-loved native land;
Because, no more the white man, lured by gain,
Can bind his limbs with Slavery's galling chain --
Rob him of Heaven's best gift, and cast him then
Forth from his equal rank with fellow-men, --
Transform him to a brute, yea, worse, a slave --
Who loathes to bear the life that Nature gave.
No more his mourning brow will pain our sight,
For Nature triumphs and asserts her right,
Expands his heart and bids his tongue explain
The pride, the bliss that swells through every vein,
Flushes unseen his dusky cheek, and dwells
Enshrined within his bosom's deepest cells.
But, a still warmer feeling rises there,
Which gushes like the desert-waters clear:
That fount is gratitude; -- it flows for you,
To whom the tribute of his thanks is due,
Who loosed his bonds and taught his mind to soar,
Far from Oppression's chain, to Freedom's shore.
Ne'er can his heart forget that glorious deed --
Through you the sable African was freed
From every bond, save one which memory threw
Around his heart, to bind it fast to you.
*_____ *_____
From the Emerald Isle.