Yearsley, "On the Inhumanity of the Slave Trade"

	Bristol, thine heart hath throbb’d to glory. — Slaves,
	E’en Christian slaves, have shook their chains, and gaz’d
	With wonder and amazement on thee. Hence°	go away
	Ye grov’ling souls, who think the term I give,
	Of Christian slave, a paradox! to you
	I do not turn, but leave you to conception°	idea
	Narrow;° with that be blest, nor dare to stretch	limited
	Your shackled souls along the course of Freedom.

	Yet, Bristol, list!° nor deem Lactilla’s° soul	listen — Yearsley’s pen name
	Lessen’d by distance; snatch her rustic thought,
	Her crude ideas, from their panting state,
	And let them fly in wide expansion; lend
	Thine energy, so little understood
	By the rude million, and I’ll dare the strain°	passionate language
	Of Heav’n-born Liberty till Nature moves
	Obedient to her voice. Alas! my friend,
	Strong rapture dies within the soul, while Pow’r
	Drags on his bleeding victims. Custom, Law,
	Ye blessings, and ye curses of mankind,
	What evils do ye cause? We feel enslaved,
	Yet move in your direction. Custom, thou
	Wilt preach up filial° piety; thy sons	appropriate to a child
	Will groan, and stare with impudence at Heav’n,
	As if they did abjure° the act, where Sin	reject
	Sits full on Inhumanity; the church
	They fill with mouthing, vap’rous sighs and tears,
	Which, like the guileful crocodile’s, oft fall,
	Nor fall, but at the cost of human bliss.

	Custom, thou hast undone° us! led us far	ruined
	From God-like probity,° from truth, and heaven.	integrity, honesty

	But come, ye souls who feel for human woe,
	Tho’ drest in savage guise!° Approach, thou son,	primitive clothing
	Whose heart would shudder at a father’s chains,
	And melt o’er thy lov’d brother as he lies
	Gasping in torment undeserv’d. Oh, sight
	Horrid and insupportable! far worse
	Than an immediate, an heroic death;
	Yet to this sight I summon thee. Approach,
	Thou slave of avarice,° that canst see the maid	greed
	Weep o’er her inky° sire! Spare me, thou God	Black
	Of all-indulgent Mercy, if I scorn
	This gloomy wretch, and turn my tearful eye
	To more enlighten’d beings. Yes, my tear
	Shall hang on the green furze,° like pearly dew	shrubs
	Upon the blossom of the morn. My song
	Shall teach sad Philomel° a louder note,	mythological name for nightingale
	When Nature swells her woe. O’er suff’ring man
	My soul with sorrow bends! Then come, ye few
	Who feel a more than cold, material essence;
	Here ye may vent your sighs, till the bleak North
	Find its adherents aided. — Ah, no more!
	The dingy youth comes on, sullen in chains;
	He smiles on the rough sailor, who aloud
	Strikes at the spacious heav’n, the earth, the sea,
	In breath too blasphemous; yet not to him
	Blasphemous, for he dreads not either: — lost
	In dear internal imag’ry, the soul
	Of Indian Luco° rises to his eyes,	a (fictional) slave
	Silent, not inexpressive: the strong beams
	With eager wildness yet° drink in the view	still
	Of his too humble home, where he had left
	His mourning father, and his Incilanda.°	Luco’s lover

	Curse on the toils spread by a Christian hand
	To rob the Indian of his freedom! Curse
	On him who from a bending parent steals
	His dear support of age, his darling child;
	Perhaps a son, or a more tender daughter,
	Who might have clos’d his eyelids, as the spark
	Of life gently retired. Oh, thou poor world!
	Thou fleeting good to individuals! see
	How much for thee they care, how wide they ope
	Their helpless arms to clasp thee; vapour thou!
	More swift than passing wind! thou leav’st them nought
	Amid th’unreal scene, but a scant grave.

	I know the crafty merchant will oppose
	The plea of nature to my strain,° and urge	passionate language
	His toils are for his children: the soft plea
	Dissolves my soul — but when I sell a son,
	Thou God of nature, let it be my own!

	Behold that Christian! see what horrid joy
	Lights up his moody features, while he grasps
	The wish’d-for gold, purchase of human blood!
	Away, thou seller of mankind! Bring on
	Thy daughter to this market! bring thy wife!
	Thine aged mother, though of little worth,
	With all thy ruddy boys! Sell them, thou wretch,
	And swell the price of Luco! Why that start?°	Why do you act shocked?
	Why gaze as thou wouldst fright me from my challenge
	With look of anguish? Is it Nature strains
	Thine heart-strings at the image? Yes, my charge
	Is full against her, and she rends° thy soul,	tears
	While I but strike upon thy pityless ear,
	Fearing her rights are violated. — Speak,
	Astound the voice of Justice! bid thy tears
	Melt the unpitying pow’r, while thus she claims
	The pledges of thy love. Oh, throw thine arm
	Around thy little ones, and loudly plead
	Thou canst not sell thy children. — Yet, beware
	Lest Luco’s groan be heard; should that prevail,
	Justice will scorn thee in her turn, and hold
	Thine act against thy pray’r. Why clasp, she cries,
	That blooming youth? Is it because thou lov’st him?
	Why Luco was belov’d: then wilt thou feel,
	Thou selfish Christian, for thy private woe,
	Yet cause such pangs to him that is a father?
	Whence° comes thy right to barter for thy fellows?	from where
	Where are thy statutes? Whose the iron pen
	That gave thee precedent? Give me the seal
	Of virtue, or religion, for thy trade,
	And I will ne’er upbraid° thee; but if force	criticize
	Superior, hard brutality alone
	Become thy boast, hence to some savage haunt,°	go somewhere uncivilized
	Nor claim protection from my social laws.

	Luco is gone; his little brothers weep,
	While his fond mother climbs the hoary° rock	white
	Whose point o’er-hangs the main.° No Luco there,	ocean
	No sound, save° the hoarse billows. On she roves,	except
	With love, fear, hope, holding alternate rage
	In her too anxious bosom. Dreary main!°	ocean
	Thy murmurs now are riot, while she stands
	List’ning to ev’ry breeze, waiting the step
	Of gentle Luco. Ah, return! return!
	Too hapless° mother, thy indulgent arms	unfortunate
	Shall never clasp thy fetter’d Luco more.
	See Incilanda! artless° maid, my soul	sincere
	Keeps pace with thee, and mourns. Now o’er the hill
	She creeps, with timid foot, while Sol° embrowns	the sun
	The bosom of the isle, to where she left
	Her faithful lover: here the well-known cave,
	By Nature form’d amid the rock, endears°	makes dearer
	The image of her Luco; here his pipe,°	flute
	Form’d of the polish’d cane,° neglected lies,	sugarcane stalk
	No more to vibrate; here the useless dart,°	arrow
	The twanging bow, and the fierce panther’s skin,
	Salute° the virgin’s eye. But where is Luco?	greet
	He comes not down the steep, tho’ he had vow’d,
	When the sun’s beams at noon should sidelong gild°	make golden
	The cave’s wide entrance, he would swift descend
	To bless his Incilanda. Ten pale moons°	months
	Had glided by, since to his generous breast
	He clasp’d the tender maid, and whisper’d love.

	Oh, mutual sentiment! thou dang’rous bliss!
	So exquisite, that Heav’n had been° unjust	would have been
	Had it bestowd less exquisite of ill;
	When thou art held no more, thy pangs are deep,
	Thy joys convulsive to the soul; yet all
	Are meant to smooth th’ uneven road of life.

	For Incilanda, Luco rang’d the wild,
	Holding her image to his panting heart;
	For her he strain’d the bow, for her he stript
	The bird of beauteous plumage; happy hour,
	When with these guiltless trophies he adorn’d
	The brow of her he lov’d. Her gentle breast
	With gratitude was fill’d, nor knew she aught°	anything
	Of language strong enough to paint her soul,
	Or ease the great emotion; whilst her eye
	Pursued the gen’rous Luco to the field,
	And glow’d with rapture at his wish’d return.

	Ah, sweet suspense! betwixt° the mingled cares	among
	Of friendship, love, and gratitude, so mix’d,
	That ev’n the soul may cheat herself. — Down, down,
	Intruding Memory! bid thy struggles cease,
	At this soft scene of innate war. What sounds
	Break on her ear? She, starting,° whispers “Luco.”	being startled
	Be still, fond° maid; list° to the tardy step	loving — listen
	Of leaden-footed woe. A father comes,
	But not to seek his son, who from the deck
	Had breath’d a last adieu: no, he shuts out
	The soft, fallacious° gleam of hope, and turns	misleading
	Within upon the mind: horrid and dark
	Are his wild, unenlighten’d pow’rs: no ray
	Of forc’d philosophy to calm his soul,
	But all the anarchy of wounded nature.

	Now he arraigns° his country’s gods, who sit,	blames
	In his bright fancy,° far beyond the hills,	imagination
	Unriveting the chains of slaves: his heart
	Beats quick with stubborn fury, while he doubts
	Their justice to his child. Weeping old man,
	Hate not a Christian’s God, whose record holds
	Thine injured Luco’s name. Frighted he starts,°	is startled
	Blasphemes the Deity, whose altars rise
	Upon the Indian’s helpless neck, and sinks,
	Despising comfort, till by grief and age
	His angry spirit is forced out. Oh, guide,
	Ye angel-forms, this joyless shade to worlds
	Where the poor Indian, with the sage, is prov’d
	The work of a Creator. Pause not here,
	Distracted° maid! ah, leave the breathless form,	mad with grief
	On whose cold cheek thy tears so swiftly fall,
	Too unavailing!° On this stone, she cries,	without effect
	My Luco sat, and to the wand’ring stars
	Pointed my eye, while from his gentle tongue
	Fell old traditions of his country’s woe.
	Where now shall Incilanda seek him? Hence,
	Defenceless mourner, ere the dreary night
	Wrap thee in added horror. Oh, Despair,
	How eagerly thou rend’st° the heart! She pines	tear
	In anguish deep, and sullen: Luco’s form
	Pursues her, lives in restless thought, and chides°	criticizes
	Soft consolation. Banish’d from his arms,
	She seeks the cold embrace of death; her soul
	Escapes in one sad sigh. Too hapless° maid!	unfortunate
	Yet happier far than he thou lov’dst; his tear,
	His sigh, his groan avail not,° for they plead	have no effect
	Most weakly with a Christian. Sink, thou wretch,
	Whose act shall on the cheek of Albion’s° sons	poetic name for Britain
	Throw Shame’s red blush: thou, who hast frighted far
	Those simple wretches from thy God, and taught
	Their erring minds to mourn his partial love,
	Profusely pour’d on thee, while they are left
	Neglected to thy mercy. Thus deceiv’d,
	How doubly dark must be their road to death!

	Luco is borne° around the neighb’ring isles,	transported
	Losing the knowledge of his native shore
	Amid the pathless wave; destin’d to plant
	The sweet luxuriant cane.° He strives to please,	sugarcane
	Nor once complains, but greatly smothers grief.
	His hands are blister’d, and his feet are worn,
	Till ev’ry stroke dealt by his mattock gives	mattock, gardening tool like a hoe
	Keen agony to life; while from his breast
	The sigh arises, burthen’d° with the name	weighted down
	Of Incilanda. Time inures° the youth,	makes accustomed to
	His limbs grow nervous,° strain’d by willing toil;	nervous = weakened
	And resignation, or a calm despair,
	(Most useful either) lulls him to repose.°	rest

	A Christian renegade, that from his soul
	Abjures° the tenets° of our schools, nor dreads	rejects — teachings
	A future punishment, nor hopes for mercy,
	Had fled from England, to avoid those laws
	Which must have made his life a retribution
	To violated justice, and had gain’d,
	By fawning guile,° the confidence (ill placed)	deceit
	Of Luco’s master. O’er the slave he stands
	With knotted whip, lest fainting nature shun
	The task too arduous, while his cruel soul,
	Unnat’ral, ever feeds, with gross delight,
	Upon his suff rings. Many slaves there were,
	But none who could supress the sigh, and bend,
	So quietly as Luco: long he bore
	The stripes,° that from his manly bosom drew	strokes with a whip
	The sanguine° stream (too little priz’d); at length	bloody
	Hope fled his soul, giving her struggles o’er,
	And he resolv’d to die. The sun had reach’d
	His zenith° — pausing faintly, Luco stood,	high point
	Leaning upon his hoe, while mem’ry brought,
	In piteous imag’ry, his aged father,
	His poor fond° mother, and his faithful maid:	loving
	The mental° group in wildest motion set	imagined
	Fruitless imagination; fury, grief,
	Alternate shame, the sense of insult, all
	Conspire to aid the inward storm; yet words
	Were no relief, he stood in silent woe.

	Gorgon, remorseless Christian, saw the slave
	Stand musing,° ’mid the ranks, and, stealing° soft	thinking — moving quietly
	Behind the studious Luco, struck his cheek
	With a too-heavy whip, that reach’d his eye,
	Making it dark° for ever. Luco turn’d,	blind
	In strongest agony, and with his hoe
	Struck the rude Christian on the forehead. Pride,
	With hateful malice, seize on Gorgon’s soul,
	By nature fierce; while Luco sought the beach,
	And plung’d beneath the wave; but near him lay
	A planter’s barge, whose seamen grasp’d his hair
	Dragging to life a wretch who wish’d to die.

	Rumour now spreads the tale, while Gorgon’s breath
	Envenom’d, °aids her blast: imputed° crimes	poisoned — accused
	Oppose the plea of Luco, till he scorns
	Even a just defence, and stands prepared.
	The planters, conscious° that to fear alone	aware
	They owe their cruel pow’r, resolve to blend
	New torment with the pangs of death, and hold
	Their victims high in dreadful view, to fright
	The wretched number left. Luco is chain’d
	To a huge tree, his fellow-slaves are ranged
	To share the horrid sight; fuel is plac’d
	In an increasing train,° some paces back,	sequence
	To kindle slowly, and approach the youth,
	With more than native terror. See, it burns!
	He gazes on the growing flame, and calls
	For “water, water!” The small boon’s° deny’d.	blessing
	E’en Christians throng each other, to behold
	The different alterations of his face,
	As the hot death approaches. (Oh, shame, shame
	Upon the followers of Jesus! shame
	On him that dares avow a God!) He writhes,
	While down his breast glide the unpity’d tears,
	And in their sockets strain their scorched balls.
	“Burn, burn me quick! I cannot die!” he cries:
	“Bring fire more close!” The planters heed him not,
	But still prolonging Luco’s torture, threat
	Their trembling slaves around. His lips are dry,
	His senses seem to quiver, e’er they quit
	His frame for ever, rallying strong, then driv’n
	From the tremendous conflict. Sight no more
	Is Luco’s, his parch’d tongue is ever mute;
	Yet in his soul his Incilanda stays,
	Till both escape together. Turn, my muse,°	goddess who inspires poetry
	From this sad scene; lead Bristol’s milder soul
	To where the solitary spirit roves,
	Wrapt in the robe of innocence, to shades
	Where pity breathing in the gale, dissolves
	The mind, when fancy paints such real woe.

	Now speak, ye Christians (who for gain enslave
	A soul like Luco’s, tearing her from joy	her, that is, the soul
	In life’s short vale;° and if there be a hell,	time of suffering
	As ye believe, to that ye thrust her down,
	A blind, involuntary victim), where
	Is your true essence of religion? where
	Your proofs of righteousness, when ye conceal
	The knowledge of the Deity from those
	Who would adore him fervently? Your God
	Ye rob of worshippers, his altars keep
	Unhail’d, while driving from the sacred font	font, where Christians are baptized
	The eager slave, lest he should hope in Jesus.

	Is this your piety? Are these your laws,
	Whereby the glory of the Godhead spreads
	O’er barb’rous climes?° Ye hypocrites, disown	uncivilized lands
	The Christian name, nor shame its cause: yet where
	Shall souls like yours find welcome? Would the Turk,°	Muslim
	Pagan, or wildest Arab, ope their arms
	To gain such proselytes?° No; he that owns	converts
	The name of Mussulman° would start, and shun	Muslim
	Your worse than serpent touch; he frees his slave
	Who turns to Mahomet. The Spaniard stands
	Your brighter contrast; he condemns the youth
	For ever to the mine; but ere the wretch
	Sinks to the deep domain, the hand of Faith
	Bathes his faint temples° in the sacred stream,	baptizes him
	Bidding his spirit hope. Briton, dost thou
	Act up to this? If so, bring on thy slaves
	To Calv’ry’s mount, raise high their kindred souls	Calvary, where Jesus was crucified
	To him who died to save them: this alone
	Will teach them calmly to obey thy rage,
	And deem a life of misery but a day,
	To long eternity. Ah, think how soon
	Thine head shall on earth’s dreary pillow lie,
	With thy poor slaves, each silent, and unknown
	To his once furious neighbour. Think how swift
	The sands of time ebb out, for him and thee.
	Why groans that Indian youth, in burning chains
	Suspended o’er the beach? The lab’ring sun
	Strikes from his full meridian on the slave
	Whose arms are blister’d by the heated iron,
	Which still corroding, seeks the bone. What crime
	Merits so dire a death? Another gasps
	With strongest agony, while life declines
	From recent amputation. Gracious God!
	Why thus in mercy let thy whirlwinds sleep
	O’er a vile race of Christians, who profane
	Thy glorious attributes? Sweep them from earth,
	Or check° their cruel pow’r: the savage tribes	limit
	Are angels when compared to brutes° like these.	brutes = animals

	Advance, ye Christians, and oppose my strain:°	passionate speeceh
	Who dares condemn it? Prove from laws divine,
	From deep philosophy, or social love,
	That ye derive your privilege. I scorn
	The cry of Av’rice, or the trade that drains
	A fellow-creature’s blood: bid Commerce plead
	Her publick good, her nation’s many wants,°	needs
	Her sons thrown idly on the beach, forbade
	To seize the image of their God and sell it: —
	I’ll hear her voice, and Virtue’s hundred tongues
	Shall sound against her. Hath our public good
	Fell rapine° for its basis? Must our wants	cruel plunder
	Find their supply in murder? Shall the sons
	Of Commerce shiv’ring stand, if not employ’d
	Worse than the midnight robber? Curses fall
	On the destructive system that shall need
	Such base supports! Doth England need them? No;
	Her laws, with prudence, hang the meagre thief
	That from his neighbour steals a slender sum,
	Tho’ famine drove him on. O’er him the priest,
	Beneath the fatal tree, laments the crime,
	Approves the law, and bids him calmly die.
	Say, doth this law, that dooms the thief, protect
	The wretch who makes another’s life his prey,
	By hellish force to take it at his will?
	Is this an English law, whose guidance fails
	When crimes are swell’d to magnitude so vast,
	That Justice dare not scan° them? Or does Law	judge
	Bid Justice an eternal distance keep
	From England’s great tribunal, when the slave
	Calls loud on Justice only? Speak, ye few
	Who fill Britannia’s senate,° and are deem’d	Parliament
	The fathers of your country! Boast your laws,
	Defend the honour of a land so fall’n,
	That Fame from ev’ry battlement is flown,
	And Heathens° start,° e’en at a Christian’s name.	non-Christians — are startled

	Hail, social love! true soul of order, hail!
	Thy softest emanations, pity, grief,
	Lively emotion, sudden joy, and pangs,
	Too deep for language, are thy own: then rise,
	Thou gentle angel! spread thy silken wings
	O’er drowsy man, breathe in his soul, and give
	Her God-like pow’rs thy animating° force,	life-giving
	To banish Inhumanity. Oh, loose°	loosen
	The fetters of his mind, enlarge his views,
	Break down for him the bound of avarice, lift
	His feeble faculties beyond a world
	To which he soon must prove a stranger! Spread
	Before his ravish’d eye the varied tints
	Of future glory; bid them live to Fame,
	Whose banners wave for ever. Thus inspired,
	All that is great, and good, and sweetly mild,
	Shall fill his noble bosom. He shall melt,
	Yea, by thy sympathy unseen, shall feel
	Another’s pang: for the lamenting maid
	His heart shall heave a sigh; with the old slave
	(Whose head is bent with sorrow) he shall cast
	His eye back on the joys of youth, and say,
	“Thou once couldst feel, as I do, love’s pure bliss;
	“Parental fondness, and the dear returns
	“Of filial tenderness were thine, till torn	filial, related to being a son or daughter
	“From the dissolving scene.” — Oh, social love,
	Thou universal good, thou that canst fill
	The vacuum of immensity, and live
	In endless void! thou that in motion first
	Set’st the long lazy atoms,° by thy force	smallest parts
	Quickly assimilating, and restrain’d
	By strong attraction; touch the soul of man;
	Subdue him; make a fellow-creature’s woe
	His own by heart-felt sympathy, whilst wealth
	Is made subservient to his soft disease.

	And when thou hast to high perfection wrought
	This mighty work, say, “such is Bristol’s soul.”

	F I N I S.

A Poem on the Inhumanity of the Slave Trade

By Ann Yearsley

Edited and annotated by Jack Lynch

F I N I S.

Notes