[From Poetical Works, by Eaglesfield Smith, Esq, 2nd ed., 2 vols. (London: Baldwin, Cradock, and Joy, 1822), 132-36.]

THE SLAVE.

------

Ye, for freedom boldly braving,

Ev'ry danger, every foe;

When shall mankind cease enslaving,

When shall cease poor Afric's woe?

Come kind death and give me rest;

Yamba hath no friend but thee;

Thou canst ease my throbbing breast,

Thou canst set a prisoner free.

In St Lucie's distant isle,

Still with Afric's love I burn;

Parted many a thousand mile,

Never, never to return.

Down my cheeks the tears are dripping;

Broken is my heart with grief;

Mangled my poor flesh with whipping,--

Come kind death and give relief.

Born on Afric's golden coast,

Once I was as blest as you;

Parents tender I could boast,

Husband dear and children too.

Wily man! he came from far,

Sailing o'er the briny flood,

Who, with the help of British tar,

Buys up human flesh and blood.

With my baby at my breast,

(Other two were sleeping by,)

In my hut I sat at rest,

With no thought of danger nigh.

From the bush at even tide,

Rush'd the fierce man-stealing crew,

Seiz'd the baby at my side,

Seiz'd the wretched Yamba too.

Then, for cursed thirst of gold,*

Straight they bore me to the sea;

Cramm'd me down a slave ship's hold,

Where were hundreds stow'd with me.

Naked on the platform lying,

Now we cross the tumbling wave;

Shrieking, sick'ning, fainting, dying!

Deed of shame for Britons brave.

At the savage captain's beck,

Now like brutes they make us prance,

Smack the whip about the deck,

And in scorn they bid us dance.

Groaning there I pass'd the night,

And did roll my aching head;

At the break of morning light,

My poor child was cold and dead.

Happy, happy, there it lies!

It shall feel the lash no more,

Thus full many a negro dies,

Ere he reach the destin'd shore.

Ye for freedom boldly braving,

Every danger, every foe,

When shall mankind cease enslaving,

When shall cease poor Afric's woe?

Drove like cattle to a fair,

Now they sell us young and old;

Child from mother too they tear,

All for cursed thirst of gold.

I was sold to master hard,

Some have masters kind and good;

And again my back was scar'd;

Bad and stinted was my food.

Poor and wounded, faint and sick,

All expos'd to burning sky,

Master makes me grass to pick;

And I now am near to die.

What! and if to death he send me,

Savage murder though it be,

British laws will ne'er befriend me,

They protect not slaves like me.

Mourning thus my friendless state,

Ne'er may I forget the day,

That in dusk of even late,

Far from home I dar'd to stray.

Dar'd, alas! with impious haste,

Toward the roaring sea to fly;

Death itself I long'd to taste,

Long'd to cast me in and die.

But though death this hour I find,

Still with Afric's love I burn;

Where I left a spouse behind,

Still to Afric's land I turn.

And when Yamba sinks in death,

This her latest prayer shall be,

While she yields her parting breath,

Oh! may Afric's land be free!

Ye that boast the rule of waves,

Bid that no slave-ship sail the sea;

Ye that never will be slaves,

O bid poor Afric's land be free.

Then where Yamba's native home,

Humble hut of rushes stood,

Her happy sons again may roam,

And Britons seek not for their blood.

Ye for freedom boldly braving

Ev'ry danger, every foe;

When shall mankind cease enslaving,

When shall cease poor Afric's woe?

* Auri sacra fanes.----VIRG.