A Poem on the Inhumanity of the Slave-Trade A Machine-Readable Transcript Yearsley, Ann (1753-1806) Miami University The Poetess Tradition General Editor, Laura Mandell Editor Dr Brycchan Carey 2008-00-00 TEI formatted filesize uncompressed: approx. 52.4 kbytes yearsley1788P5 King Library, Miami University Oxford, OH 2008-07-25

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The Poetess Archive: an Electronic Collection Laura Mandell, General Editor. writer Ann Yearsley Lactilla The Poetical Milkwoman of Bristol A Poem on the Inhumanity of the Slave-Trade London G. G. J. and J. Robinson 1788-00-00

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 Indented 5 spaces from margin in original Indented 10 space from marin in original Italicized Aligned right Primary or Secondary primary secondary Genre and Material Form pageimage biography biographical essay poetry pamphlet poetry book poem story drama table of contents table of illustrations picture index notes frontispiece inscription page book boards titlepage preface advertisement foreword acknowledgments collection literary annual collection miscellany collection anthology collection beauties collection juvenile collection religious collection travels mixed essay review letter fragment poem fragment story fragment novel literary criticism book literary criticism collection bibliography engraving reproduction figure graph map table musical score music satire political pamphlet political cartoon periodical historical monograph historical essay philosophical treatise philosophical essay religious pamphlet sermon theology religious book essay on education educational treatise list of subscribers allegory introduction slipcase dedication picture of building floorplans photograph translation manuscript novel travel essay Library of Congress Subject Headings, reduced to one word before hyphen British Library Shelf Mark Slave-trade Slavery 11641.g.47. (3.) Laura Mandell transformed from P4 to P5 changed XSLTs Laura Mandell corrections to XML coding Laura Mandell XML coding; XSL application: Oxygen Zach Weir XML coding; XSL application: Oxygen A Poem on the Inhumanity of the Slave-Trade Humbly Inscribed to the Right Honourable and Right Reverend Frederick Earl of Bristol, Bishop of Derry &c., &c. Ann Yearsley G. G. J. and J. Robinson London 1788 Go seek the soul refin'd and strong: Such aids my wildest pow'r of song: For those I strike the rustic lyre Who share the transports they inspire.
To the Right Hon. and Right Rev. FREDERICK, Earl of Bristol, Bishop of Derry, &c. &c.

MY LORD,

BEING convinced that your Ideas of Justice and Humanity are not confined to one Race of Men, I have endeavoured to lead you to the Indian Coast. My Intention is not to cause that Anguish in your Bosom which powerless Compassion ever gives: yet, my Vanity is flattered, when I but fancy that Your Lordship feels as I do.

With the highest Reverence, I am, My Lord Your Lordship's much obliged, And obedient Servant, ANN YEARSLEY.
A Poem on the Inhumanity of the Slave-Trade An e-text that more closely resembles the original in layout and typography is available edited by Brycchan Carey.

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 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 Narrow; with that be blest, nor dare to stretch Your shackled souls along the course of Freedom. Yet, Bristol, list! nor deem Lactilla's soul 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 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 Will groan, and stare with impudence at Heav'n, As if they did abjure the act, where Sin 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 From God-like probity, from truth, and heaven. But come, ye souls who feel for human woe, Tho' drest in savage guise! Approach, thou son, 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 Weep o'er her inky fire! Spare me, thou God 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 Upon the blossom of the morn. My song Shall teach sad Philomel a louder note, 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, Silent, not inexpressive: the strong beams With eager wildness yet drink in the view Of his too humble home, where he had left His mourning father, and his Incilanda. 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 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 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, 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? 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 Superior, hard brutality alone Become thy boast, hence to some savage haunt, Nor claim protection from my social laws. Luco is gone; his little brothers weep, While his fond mother climbs the hoary rock Whose point o'er-hangs the main. No Luco there, No sound, save the hoarse billows. On she roves, With love, fear, hope, holding alternate rage In her too anxious bosom. Dreary main! 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 Shall never clasp thy fetter'd Luco more. See Incilanda! artless maid, my soul Keeps pace with thee, and mourns. Now o'er the hill She creeps, with timid foot, while Sol embrowns 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 The image of her Luco; here his pipe, Form'd of the polish'd cane, neglected lies, No more to vibrate; here the useless dart, The twanging bow, and the fierce panther's skin, Salute the virgin's eye. But where is Luco? He comes not down the steep, tho' he had vow'd, When the sun's beams at noon should sidelong gild The cave's wide entrance, he would swift descend To bless his Incilanda. Ten pale moons 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 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 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 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." Be still, fond maid; list to the tardy step 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 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, In his bright fancy, far beyond the hills, 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, 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, On whose cold cheek thy tears so swiftly fall, Too unavailing! On this stone, she cries, 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 In anguish deep, and sullen: Luco's form Pursues her, lives in restless thought, and chides Soft consolation. Banish'd from his arms, She seeks the cold embrace of death; her soul Escapes in one sad sigh. Too hapless maid! Yet happier far than he thou lov'dst; his tear, His sigh, his groan avail not, for they plead Most weakly with a Christian. Sink, thou wretch, Whose act shall on the cheek of Albion's sons 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,Indians have been often heard to say, in their complaining moments, "God Almighty no love us well; he be good to buckera [White man]; he bid buckera burn us; he no burn buckera." 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, Losing the knowledge of his native shore Amid the pathless wave; destin'd to plant The sweet luxuriant cane. He strives to please, 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 Keen agony to life; while from his breast The sigh arises, burthen'd with the name Of Incilanda. Time inures the youth, His limbs grow nervous, strain'd by willing toil; And resignation, or a calm despair, (Most useful either) lulls him to repose. A Christian renegade, that from his soul Abjures the tenets of our schools, nor dreads 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) 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 The sanguine stream (too little priz'd); at length 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, Leaning upon his hoe, while mem'ry brought, In piteous imag'ry, his aged father, His poor fond mother, and his faithful maid: The mental group in wildest motion set 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 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, 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 Oppose the plea of Luco, till he scorns Even a just defence, and stands prepared. The planters, conscious that to fear alone 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, 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. 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, 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 In life's short vale; and if there be a hell, 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 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 The Christian name, nor shame its cause: yet where Shall souls like yours find welcome? Would the Turk, Pagan, or wildest Arab, ope their arms To gain such proselytes? No; he that owns The name of MussulmanThe Turk gives freedom to his slave on condition that he embraces Mahometism. would start, and shun Your worse than serpent touch; he frees his slave Who turns to Mahomet. The SpaniardThe Spaniard, immediately on purchasing an Indian, gives him baptism. 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, 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 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? A coromantin slave in Jamaica (who had frequently escaped to the mountains) was, a few years since, doomed to have his leg cut off. A young practitioner from England (after the surgeon of the estate had refused to be an executioner) undertook the operation, but after the removal of the limb, on the slave's exclaiming, You buckera! God Almightly made dat leg; you cut [p. 24 / p. 25] it off! You put it on again? was so shocked, that the other surgeon was obliged to take up the vessals, apply the dressings, &c. The Negro suffered without a groan, called for his pipe, and calmly smoaked, till the absence of his attendant gave him an opportunity of tearing off his bandages, when he bled to death in an instant. Many will call this act of the Negro's stubbornness; under such circumstances, I dare give it a more glorious epithet, and that is fortitude. 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 Are angels when compared to brutes like these. Advance, ye Christians, and oppose my strain: 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, 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 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 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 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. 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, To banish Inhumanity. Oh, loose 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 " 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 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.