Читать книгу The Guinea Voyage: A Poem in Three Books - James Field Stanfield - Страница 6

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The direful Voyage to Guinea's sultry shore,

And Afric's wrongs, indignant Muse! deplore.

Or will the Muse the opprobious theme disdain—

And start abhorrent from the unhallowed strain?

How blast the bard whom happier themes inspire,

Who wakes with kindred lays his melting lyre;

Whose soothing tones by sympathy impart,

Joy's glad emotions to the feeling heart!

But mine be such dread notes as fiercely pour

The shrieks of anguish on the midnight hour!

Be mine the broken strain, the fearful sound,

That wildly winds the howling death-song round!

Come then, celestial Muse! with Sybil-bough,

Lead thro' the horrors these scenes of woe:

Support the fainting weakness that recoils

At well-known grief's, at long-supported toils:

Extend thine hand where threat'ning gulphs are spread;

Lift thy broad shield where storms beat round the head:

Illume the dreary waste—inspire the lay—

Guide feeble pow'rs along the arduous way:

Assist to paint the melancholy view,

The dismal, the disgraceful track pursue,

And with the Eagle-eye of Truth pervade

All the dark mazes of th' inhuman trade.

Whilst awful pause marks the advancing ill,

Whose gathering horrors the scar'd fancy fill,

Like Afric's own Tornado—must its rise

Be view'd, portentous, staining British skies?

Can the full storm, that blackens in its course,

From British climes derive its fated source?

From British climes, alas! the Demon springs,

On whose polluted form and horrid wings

Hangs, of dire Slavery, the collected store,

Which, hapless Afric, on thy injur'd shore

Shall, in its fulness of destruction, fall,

Outraging, desolating, whelming all!

At length th' unfeeling colleagues close combine,

And midnight council broods the black design;

Strikes the first link of the tremend'ous chain,

Whose motion vibrates thro' the realms of pain.

Th' insatiate thirst of av'rice to supply,

Or fill the pomp of fancy's changing eye;

For vice, intemp'rance, passion, to provide,

To dress up folly, or to pamper pride,

Th' infernal traffic's plann'd. Now busy care

Furrows each face, and clamours rend the air.

The sounding anvil shakes the distant main,

Forging with pond'rous strokes th' accursed chain.

The' attractive Outfit claims each bustling hand:

Confusion works, and uproar gives command.

Th' undaunted souls, whose manly bosoms dare

The tempest's fury, or the nation's war,

Whose unsuspecting hearts no dangers scan,

Fall the first victims of th' enormous plan.

Round them, nefarious agents spread the wing,

And o'er unconscious youth their poisons fling.

Polluted dens of infamy they throng,

With painted vice, to raise the Syren-song;

With specious arts subdue th' unwary mind,

Close their limed web, their feeble victims bind.

Fictitious debts, false oaths, undue arrests,

Crowd the wrong'd prison with illegal guests.

Immur'd from friendship's aid, unnerv'd by grief,

Hopeless of justice—no disclos'd relief.—

One only portal opes the gloomy road;

One dire condition bursts the drear abode.

Slav'ry's dark genius heaves the iron door,

And, grinning ghastly, points to Guinea's shore—

Some few, the voluntary woe embrace,

Sore from false friends, or undeserv'd disgrace;

Subdu'd by pow'r, by fell misfortune worn,

Or by the pangs of hopeless passion torn;

Weary of griefs no patience can endure,

They seek the Lethe of a mortal cure.

Such, Russel—lov'd companion, faithful friend!

Such were thy motives, such thy purpos'd end.

Thy harmless spirit—gentlest of thy kind,

Was ne'er to savage cruelty inclin'd.

Long might rejoicing Afric see her sons

Crowd freedom's plains, beneath their native thrones;

E're thy meek hand—in virtue only brave,

Had fix'd one fetter on the prostrate slave!

Far other feelings his mild soul imprest;

Far other ardours shook his hopeless breast.

With purest passion long his bosom beat,

Its rise propitious, and its progress sweet.

Returning love diffus'd the nameless charm,

And met his hopes, in virgin blushes warm.

In mutual confidence and fondness blest,

Nor guilt alarm'd, nor fear disturb'd the breast.

But eyes parental, film'd with doubtful hue,

(That with inverted glass youth's prospects view,)

Mark'd the soft transports of their chaste delight,

And peevish envy sicken'd at the fight.

With keen infliction giv'n, the stern command

Cut with relentless stroke the tender band.

The pious maid, with dutious, fearful smart,

Tore the fond lover from her trembling heart.

Despairing, doating—with distracted mien—

He flew the spot, and chang'd the heav'nly scene;

Rush'd to the rigours of the frozen pole,

To quench the conflicts of his fervid soul:

His fervid griefs the frozen aid deny,

And brave the winter of an arctic sky;

Thence by the winds and fiercer passions blown,

He tries the ardours of the flaming zone.

Seeking with hopeless agony to find

Extremes like those, which shook his tortur'd mind;

From cold Despair's keen night and icy sway,

To all the scorchings of Love's burning ray.

See o'er the glossy wave the vessel skim,

In swelling garments proud, and gayest trim,

Glitt'ring in streamers, deck'd in painted guile,

Cov'ring the latent bane with specious smile,

In shining colours, splendidly array'd,

Assume the honours of an honest trade,

And hide, beneath a prostituted glare,

The poison'd purpose, and the' insidious snare.

Beguil'd, the crew now raise the' associate strain,

And the last drops from pleasure's goblet drain.

The gloomy master views with looks malign

Their short-liv'd mirth, and hugs the black design—

Feeds his dark rancour with the foul alloy—

How soon the impending fate will damn their joy.

So when primeval bliss through Eden stream'd

And young-ey'd innocence on pleasure beam'd,

With heedless joy the unsuspecting pair,

Revell'd in guiltless rapture, void of care.

Stung with the sight, the soul-ensnaring fiend,

Slav'ry's first author, with fell rancour grinn'd;

Fermenting envy swell'd the villain-thought—

How soon his kindred mates, with malice fraught,

Sin, Pain, and Death, would throw their shades between,

And blast with horror the delightful scene,

Change the lov'd converse and th' enchanting air,

To shrieks of woe and howlings of despair!

Now tost beneath the vessel's ample side,

The last boat lingers on the breaking tide.

The bending deck receives the parting crowd;

And shades of sorrow ev'ry face o'ercloud;

Associates, friends, compress the burning hand;

In pale dejection weeping maidens stand—

Presageful, eye the liquid, wild abyss,

And wet with tender tears the trembling kiss;

Sink from the nerveless arm, in lost dismay,

As the dread signal speeds the boat away.

Three soul-expanding shouts the skies divide;

Three wild, responsive cheers re-echo wide—

The sweet vibrations tremble on the ear,

The last delightful sounds they'll ever hear!

And now the refluent boat evades the sight,

High-mounting waves the vessels disunite.

Still the white signal, fading, strains the eyes,

Still the lorn lover with his hand replies;

Till melting into air—the object lost—

And duty sternly calling to his post,

'Twixt him and joy th' eternal curtain's drawn,

No more of bliss to know returning dawn.

Swift from the breezy north, assisting gales

Impel the course, and swell the yielding sails.

Before the sightless breeze the vessel flies,

Clambers the mountain sea, and braves the skies;

Or thund'ring down the depths that foam below,

Ploughs up the surging brine with dashing prow.

The rattling cordage whirls, the sail-yards strain,

The winding pipe re-echoes o'er the main:

Firm in their stations, ply th' obedient crowd,

Trim the directing lines, and strain the shroud;

Tug at the beating sheets with sinew'd force,

And give the vast machine its steady course.

Now, all that meets the vainly straining eye,

Is boundless ocean and unmeasur'd sky.

Unless perchance, beyond the wat'ry trace,

Iberia's purple hills th' horizon grace,

Or on the right, with a whole vintage red,

Storm-beat Madeira waves her woody head.

Still o'er the pathless waste, with rapid force,

Led by th' encreasing ray, we urge the course.

Surrounding dolphins gambol o'er the tide,

And deck the blue-green wave with silver pride:

Swift from the beautious tyrant, the weak fry

Forsake the flood, and arid ether try,

Spread the moist wing—attempt th' untoward height,

And in short soarings urge their trembling flight.

The breathing porpus cleaves his pond'rous way,

The flouncing skipjacks bound in liquid play;

Bonitoes court the spray on either side,

And Albicores in shining mazes glide:

While huge Leviathan, in monarch mood,

Spooms, like an island, thro' the subject flood.

At length assisted by the boreal breeze,

And southward urg'd by swift-pursuing seas,

Close in our liquid path blue mountains rise,

Lifting their misty summits to the skies;

The clust'ring isles, (once Fortune's own domain)

That break the surges of th' Atlantic main.

High on our left, rear'd by volcanic fires,

Shading all ocean, Teneriffe aspires;

Above the topmost clouds, with giant might,

Heaves his Promethean peak to seize the light;

And thro' conducting veins, with chemic pow'r,

Recruits exhausted nature's fiery store.

While from the West ambrosial scents exhale,

As Palma shakes her orchards to the gale.

Up from the rocky beach the clusters run,

And spread their purple ripeness to the sun.

The varied scenes we pass with luckless speed,

The fleeting beauties rapidly recede.

For, from the mazy chambers of the sky,

Loos'd by chill Boreas, all the breezes fly;

From the bright pole with force gigantic hurl'd,

Urge the swift passage through the wat'ry world.

Unconscious winds, why waft your speeding gales?

Why breath your influence on the ruffian sails?

Is it yon ensign, waving high in air,

With British crimson dy'd, that claims your care?

Alas! unconscious winds—yon waving red,

With British honours so profanely spread,

Is not the hallow'd standard, whose high fame

Leads Albion's sons to deeds of proud acclaim;

Is not the flag, with whose protecting sway

Commerce exulting sweeps the wat'ry way.

Beneath that specious banner, the dark pow'r

Of savage rigour ripens ev'ry hour:

The bloating poison swells the feeble bound,

And bursting throws the rankled venom round.

Now ruthless Tyranny triumphant reigns,

Of Hope's sweet glow no soothing ray remains.

Far from fair Freedom's blissful regions thrown,

The abject suff'rers heave th' unheeded groan.

At ev'ry movement of th' imperious brow,

Beneath rude hands, the hapless wretches bow.

Should the keen glance mark indignation's eye,

Struck to the deck, the prostrate victims lie:

Or to the shrouds ingloriously bound,

They feel the lash in many a smarting wound.

Nor dares resentment lift th' avenging hand—

With sinking spirits, and a frame unmann'd—

For, now (the meal in stinted boon supply'd,

And cheering bev'rage purposely deny'd.)

The vital current flags—the sinews faint,

Th' exhausted voice scarce breathes the weak complaint:

A torpid languor seizes ev'ry vein,

And the soul sinks beneath th' oppressive chain.

Ye sons of Britain, who, in dangers brave,

Dare all the tumults of th' uncertain wave;

Whose dauntless minds alike with ardour glow,

To waft fair commerce, or to meet the foe;

O shun the fatal course—whose sordid trace

Leads not to glory; but with foul disgrace

Stains the bright honours of a nation's fame,

And sullies all the splendours of her name!

O view with heedful glance the dismal scene,

Reflected faithful from remembrance keen—

Behold the fervour of the torrid ray

Fiercely consume each active pow'r away.

That lofty spirit, which in freedom's course

Urg'd its bold way with independent force,

Struck by th' enfeebling clime, and fiercer sway

Of tyrant power, sinks in faint dismay—

The first, devoted victim, awful falls,

As outrag'd Nature on stern vengeance calls.

END OF THE FIRST BOOK.