The Slave's Lament, by Allan Cunningham
My native land! far o'er the sea,
Enslaved and sad, I think of thee,
When, free as the unbridled breeze,
I chased the deer 'mongst spicy trees,
And stayed, amidst his fleet career,
The ostrich, with my swifter spear.
Then bright of look--as sun at noon,
Then gay of heart-as bird in June,
And careless as the lark that flies,
With song to bid the morn arise,
I rose in gladness, breast and brow
Fearless and free,--how rise I now ?
II.
How rise I?--my heart throbs to ask;
See, there's the whip, and here's the task;
Nor toil alone enchafes my mood,
My taxed and burthened soul sweats blood;
My heart leaps up in arms,--the brand
Smites sharp in an insulted hand.
This golden clime, in vain for me,
Pours liquid fragrance from the tree,--
The fruits which cool men's lips at noon,
The preacher's prayers beneath the moon,
Are vain,--my trampled heart, in truth,
Nor food can cheer, nor words can soothe.
III.
I heard a voice far o'er the waves,
Cry, "Greece had serfs and Rome had slaves;
See, swarthy Spain is doomed to pine,
'Neath slavery thrice as fierce as thine;
Gay France her rosy vintage quaffs
In fetters,--yet she leaps and laughs;
Wide Russia's rude and savage horde
Own for their law the sharpest sword;
Colombia from her slave the cup
Of freedom takes, and drinks it up;
Lo, one fair island 'midst the main !
Go touch it,--and off drops thy chain."
IV.
'Tis true,--'tis true,--yet Britons born
Still bid me taste the cup they scorn;
Men who in court, and flood, and field,
For freedom wear the sword and shield;
To save the weak, and strike the strong,
Has been green England's motto long.
I've said my say,--I've moan'd my moan,
Yet one word more,--one word alone;
My wedded love! far o'er the deep,
Livest thou, to think of me and weep?
My darling boy,--my one sweet child,
I saw thee late in sleep, and smiled,--
I saw thee in my dreams,--'tis sweet
To see them there,--we ne'er shall meet.
Allan Cunningham
Lower Belgrave Place, 16th May, 1826.