The Slave-Ship, by Mary Sterndale
All are on board,--and for the favouring gale,
To weigh the anchor, and to spread the sail,
Alone they wait,--up springs a gentle breeze,
And white waves ripple o'er the clear blue seas;
High on the deck, the impatient captain stands,
And gives the word to weigh for distant lands;
In deepening tones the seamen shout "Unmoor,"
The cheerful cry re-echoes to the shore;
The gathering winds now gently fill the sails,
The streamers flutter in the welcome gales.
What Briton's voice but eager now inquires,
(While glows his heart with all a patriot's fires,)
"Is it to meet the foe upon the wave,
To whelm him there, and Albion to save,
Yon vessel seeks the main? Are you the crew
Whose hands are mighty, and whose hearts are true?
Is yon the bark that bears upon the breeze,
Britannia's thunder, o'er Britannia's seas?
A patriot's blessing rest upon her sails,
And prosperous wishes strengthen all her gales;
May glorious conquest crown her virtuous toil!"--
--Oh! cease thy wishes, 'tis for human spoil
Yon demons seek the flood, and be those sails
Adversely wafted,--shivered by those gales!
Upon yon deck no virtuous chieftain stands,
Nor does he hold command o'er gallant bands;
Not for his country drawn his righteous sword,
Not for his country are the deeps explored,
No patriot's wishes waft him from the shores,
For him the fort no parting volley pours;
Scorned and detested by his fellow-men,
The worst of monsters and yon bark his den.
S.
Sheffield.