[From the Universal Magazine for July, 1797, pp. 43-44]

THE SORROWS OF YAMBA.

COME, kind death, and give me rest;

Yamba hath no friend but thee;

Thou canst ease my throbbing breast,

Thou canst set a pris'ner free.

In St Lucia'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 is my 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 by my side,

Seiz'd the wretched Yamba too.

Then, for cursed thirst of gold*,

Strait 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.

In 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 she lies!

Thou shalt feel the lash no more,

Thus full many a negro dies,

Ere he reach the destin'd shore.

Drove like cattle to a fair,

See they sell them 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 scarr'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 tho' 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 tho' 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 pray'r may be;

While she yields her parting breath,

O! may Afric's land be free.

Ye that boast to rule the waves,

Bid no slave ship sail the sea:

Ye that never will be slaves,

Bid poor Afric's land be free.

Thus, where Yamba's native home,

Humble hut of rushes stood,

Her happy sons again may roam,

And Britons seek not for their blood.

E. S. J.

* Auri sacra fanes. VIRG.