Oppression, by Ann Gilbert (nee Taylor)
I saw a sceptred spirit rise,
Gigantic, foul, and drear:
A stifled yell of human cries,
Out-pressed from mortal agonies,
And curses shot from burning eyes,
Did herald his career!
Around him, stretched a blasted plain,
The heart's wide desart bare;
Behind was seen the biting chain,
The silent ecstasy of pain,
The cool self-murderer's wasting vein,
The courage of despair!
Sick at the oar I saw his prey,
Sick in the grated cell;
Sick in the ocean-road that lay
From Afric's forests,--sick were they,
And sick beneath the torrid day
In many an island-dell!
Oppression, demon spirit, smiled,
And made the grief his song;
Wrenched from the mother's arm her child,
The father, from his home exiled,
Chased the lone orphan through the wild,
And mocked the widow's wrong!
Judge of the earth!--with pitying eye
Thy sword of vengeance seize!"
A voice of thunder met my cry,
Behold! beneath my goodliest sky,
Greater abominations lie,
More horrible than these!"
I gazed! and O 'twas freedom's land!
Columbia's sunny shore!--
With glorious struggle, hand in hand,
Her noble sons, a patriot band,
For homes and altars took their stand,
Resolved to stoop no more!
Bright did the conquering banners wave
On every mountain crest!
But while the civic armies gave
Their thrilling shout, "Be free, ye brave!"
Again I marked the withering slave,
At Mammon's foot, opprest!
O darkly, darkly, from my ken,
Sunk all that proud array!
My soul with loathing viewed the men,
Her priests, her patriots; glorious then,
As the free tiger in his den,
Unfettered o'er his prey!
Doff, doff that crest of pride, ye clans,
In dust your honours hide!
The captive's tear has tracked your sands,
The print of blood is on your hands,
The curse of guilt is o'er your lands,--
Doff, doff that crest of pride!
Nay, wherefore at yon altar kneel?
Why lift to heaven your song?
Go, brother, for thy brother feel,
Go, and the broken-hearted heal,
Go, leave thy gift, and blushing, steal,
To heed the captive's wrong!
Didst thou not breathe the glorious name
That christian hearts adore?
O wash thee from thy mortal shame,
Yield to thy brother saint, his claim,
Confess that from one blood ye came,
Then go,--and sin no more!
Ann Gilbert.
Nottingham.
Gigantic, foul, and drear:
A stifled yell of human cries,
Out-pressed from mortal agonies,
And curses shot from burning eyes,
Did herald his career!
Around him, stretched a blasted plain,
The heart's wide desart bare;
Behind was seen the biting chain,
The silent ecstasy of pain,
The cool self-murderer's wasting vein,
The courage of despair!
Sick at the oar I saw his prey,
Sick in the grated cell;
Sick in the ocean-road that lay
From Afric's forests,--sick were they,
And sick beneath the torrid day
In many an island-dell!
Oppression, demon spirit, smiled,
And made the grief his song;
Wrenched from the mother's arm her child,
The father, from his home exiled,
Chased the lone orphan through the wild,
And mocked the widow's wrong!
Judge of the earth!--with pitying eye
Thy sword of vengeance seize!"
A voice of thunder met my cry,
Behold! beneath my goodliest sky,
Greater abominations lie,
More horrible than these!"
I gazed! and O 'twas freedom's land!
Columbia's sunny shore!--
With glorious struggle, hand in hand,
Her noble sons, a patriot band,
For homes and altars took their stand,
Resolved to stoop no more!
Bright did the conquering banners wave
On every mountain crest!
But while the civic armies gave
Their thrilling shout, "Be free, ye brave!"
Again I marked the withering slave,
At Mammon's foot, opprest!
O darkly, darkly, from my ken,
Sunk all that proud array!
My soul with loathing viewed the men,
Her priests, her patriots; glorious then,
As the free tiger in his den,
Unfettered o'er his prey!
Doff, doff that crest of pride, ye clans,
In dust your honours hide!
The captive's tear has tracked your sands,
The print of blood is on your hands,
The curse of guilt is o'er your lands,--
Doff, doff that crest of pride!
Nay, wherefore at yon altar kneel?
Why lift to heaven your song?
Go, brother, for thy brother feel,
Go, and the broken-hearted heal,
Go, leave thy gift, and blushing, steal,
To heed the captive's wrong!
Didst thou not breathe the glorious name
That christian hearts adore?
O wash thee from thy mortal shame,
Yield to thy brother saint, his claim,
Confess that from one blood ye came,
Then go,--and sin no more!
Ann Gilbert.
Nottingham.