The rigid steersman, as abaft he stood,
Relax'd with smiles his gravity of mood;
And, as his hands the swaying helm controul,
Spoke loud the language of his narrow soul:
Some pity slaves-and bring up whip and chain-
Slaves have less cause than white men to complain—
They feed, carouse, and, when 'tis time to sleep,
Without a waking care to rest they creep:-
Cuff, art thou not full happy as a slave,
And would'st thou wish thy liberty to have? 2030
Me, massa! hie! if free I soon should steal,
And tougher whip than your's my back would feel-
If free, who feed me, clothe me, lodging give,
And make it worth his while for Cuff to live?
I grant that where the system is abus'd,
The whip made gory, and the back misus'd-
For instance at Jamaica, Martinique,
At Nevis, Guadaloupe, and Dominique,*
It is computed that there is nearly a million of enslaved human beings in the British West India Islands. Should the English reader be desirous to know how they are treated there, he has only to consult the Parliamentary speeches of Sir Samuel Romilly, of Sir James Mackintosh, and of Mr. Wilberforce; and it is probable that in the course of the perusal he will feel "each particular hair of his head to stand an end."
Where neither judge, nor jury, can be found,
But every law in negro blood is drown'd,
Where such deep crimes pollute the planter's soul
That hell will not record them on its roll;
I grant you there a slave has much to say
In vindication when he runs away.
But here where tender sympathy beguiles
The bondsman's lot, and lights his face with smiles,
Where, when he visits his snug hut of thatch,
The hand of happiness lifts up the latch,
With a fair plat before his door to raise
His cooling melons, and nutritious maize-
His wife to pound his hominy, and fill
The gourd with water from the crystal rill-
Where he can pile his winter hearth with logs,
Eggs in the hen-house-in the stye fat hogs
Crying come eat me, Cuffey, and regale
Your sweeping appetite-ne'er known to fail:-
When slaves fly us, where these things are enjoy'd,
It is because the pamper'd rogues are cloy'd.
The steersman ceas'd-and now uncouthly spoke
The man who bent the negroes to the yoke:
A true bill Buck-slaves have no bosom care
Who breathe with us the pure, Virginia air-
You cannot point a white man in the crowd
Who, like a straining negro, laughs aloud—
No, no excuse for Yarrow can be found--
Hark! was not that the ingrate's plashing sound?
If, above water, I his head espy,
I'll shoot him like a squirrel in the eye.*
The old man, wrapt in study, rais'd his brow,
And from his lips the testy accents flow:
The boy's head, Flint, we grant shall be your right, If your ball hit him first-but though my sight From age decays-still it, I hope, can guide
A rifle true, o'er either land or tide.
Then thus the tasking wretch: true is
I know at barbacuest you often claim
The victor's prize-yet still it must go hard,
If I this night win not the State's reward.
Cuff,
clean'd you well my gun, as you were told?
Yes, Massa Flint, de inside slick as gold.
The charge a full one?-treble, counted o'er?
This hand good massa, fill gun to de bore.
Keep dry the priming-should it chance to flash-
You know my mind-when thwarted, somewhat
rash!
Massa, don't fear-if Yarrow no fall dead
Then you kill Cuff, and take de State his head.
I have heard the backwoodsmen, in tacit compliment to their own skill, say, that a squirrel is not killed fairly, unless he be shot through the eye.
+ A Barbacue is a merry-meeting in the forest-shade, near a spring; where the company partake of a hog roasted whole sub dio, and carouse and shoot at a mark for a wager.
Greybeard now spoke (he held Flint's shooting cheap,
And sat exhaling oaths not loud, but deep)
The gun's not wanted-cease your babbling din-
This arm the boy shall punish for his sin;
In the last voice the dying Warbeck breath'd,
To me his curse on Yarrow he bequeath'd :
Thus Gaffer Grey, who would have spoken more,
But his cough drown'd his words half mutter'd o'er.
In silence now they cleave the liquid way, 2095 And softly watchful track their river-prey,
Intently list'ning, as they rest the oar,
To catch the plashing of the boy before.
A sound! they hear him now in fancy's dream— "Twas the shad plunging sullen in the streamAnother rippling murmur of the tide !
The otter made it at the river side.
They hear him now! it was, in act to spring,
The lonely heron pluming of his wing;
But, fluttering, paus'd, as if delight it gave
Ling'ring to bend above the moonlight wave.
Come, now, my Muse, and trumpet-tongued proclaim The wanton murderers' expiating shame,
For not such fiends this rolling orb can own,
But Pity sues, and Justice heaves a groan.
She has a scourge, which, though hung up awhile
And kept from sight-the better to beguile
Such deeds-yet none its lash withstood
Who ever stain'd their hands in guiltless blood.
Yon hill-the demon of the storm is there,
To bid these wretches stop their rash career—
His arrow hurtles, barb'd with venom'd breath,
And chills the spirit, as the voice of death.
While they discourse, the sky is overcast.
With frowning clouds, and raves the gathering blast;
High heaven's dread bolts, with awful fury hurl'd,
In vengeance seem'd to rock an impious world,
And the fork'd-lightning's flash, that scorch'd the soil,
Flam'd as to startle guilt's insulting smile.
One sheet of foam enwraps the toiling boat,
The lawyer dropp'd his oar, his breast he smoteAnd, as immers'd, inclines the leeward side,
Deplores his evil fortune on the tide.
The old man's rifle trembles in his hands,
His striving tongue no utterance commands; 2130
|