Poem: Toussaint Louverture, by Dinah Ball (English MS 414/37)
Cast a reflective glance athwart the flood
To that bold Isle where prowess and renown
Have urged their course through deluges of blood,
And snapped the Tyrant's yoke, and scorned his frown.
When Europe's unrelenting hand had swayed,
With scorpion rod, Domingo's land of slaves,
And Negro-vengeance had her deeds repaid
By massacres that died the circling waves,
Benignant Heaven, in mercy to the oppressed,
Nurtured a Hero of the jitty race,
This mighty soul with ample views possessed,
And stamped with moral dignity his face.
'Midst anarchy and war, with calm survey,
He traced a path to greatness and repose;
Laid[?] his deep counsels for a future day,
And watched the crisis of this Brethren's woes:
Then, as when a fierce Tornado's core of death
Has threatened every hope[?], in darkness driven,
And beaming beauty comes on morning breath,
The mild, assuaging Messenger of Heaven,
So dawning on despair, his plans desplayed
Sublimist views of morals, laws, defence;
While opposition vanished into shade,
And left him single in a scheme immense.
He seemed the Evagoras of modern fame:--
With Cyprian Capitol, renowned for bliss,
Had Cape Francois compared its envied name,
And stood the world's delight, as Salamis!
In virtue's eye beamed this prophetic ray!
It was too pure a soul that triumphed there,
For answering[?] beams across the flood to stray;
No Gallic policy such views could share.
New subjugation and the lash of pain
Vowed envious France: but, only art refined
Might hope concurrence in Toussaint to gain,
So firm, so true, so politic his mind.
He owned a Father's love, a father's care:--
Two sons, the growing objects of delight,
To Gallia's court had borne his ardent prayer
For literary, and for sacred light.
Eight years of absence hasten to their close,
Where, as they deem, a fleet to guard their coast,
Bears those to share their valiant Sire's repose,
Their mother's tenderness, their country's boast.
With flags of amity the Barks drew near:
At Port Dauphin is heard the friendly hail:
Yet ranged in sight embattled ranks appear,
And slaughtering blades the peaceful crowds assail!
Near Cape Francois the mooring transports lay
Troop lands on Troop, while Gallic thunders roar;
The strand is ? in a dread effray[?]
And rising flames within defend the shore.
The unsuspecting Chief, in toils of peace,
Is distant far; while, 'midst encroaching fire,
Coisnon obtains a passport and release,
To bear the anxious youths to greet their Sire.
They join:-- Let feeling's language paint the bliss,
(If bliss so pure can earthly phrase approve,)
The joy-- [?] tear[?], the soul pressed[?] kiss,
The speechless sympathies of meeting love.
Soon to their guide the grateful Chief draws near:--
"Preceptor of my sons, revered, beloved"--
With arms outstretched to embrace, & starting tear[?]
Toussaint exclaims:-- Coisnon draws back unmoved:--
And rises[?] abruptly, and with haughty air,
He speaks:-- "Armed with the Consul's[?] power,"
"At Cape Francois, demands the august Le Clerc
"Your prompt submission, and your army's flower
"These yielded, he bestows the Consul's praise
"Wealth, honor, office, or a calm retreat,
"All that a Nation's gratitude conveys,
All that ambition's highest views meet.
Refusal ventured, he defies the place,
And vows revenge implacable and deep,
Extermination of your name, and race,
And ruin that shall leave no eye to weep.
Those darling objects you so closely fold[?]
Must be resigned:-- I lead those to Le Clerc:--
A passport all conditional I hold;
That passport's faith betrayed you will not spare[?]."
Their mother's ardent eye, their whispered love,
Affection's dark and realising fears
The Hero's bosom and his features move,
And hold a moment's triumph in his tears.
Now, as from dream aroused, his piercing views,
Beneath the alluring snare, perceives the chain;
Valour and duty urge him to subdue,
To fall a Martyr, or a Prince to reign.
Coisnon he calls. "Bear then my sons from sight"--
(His front announces Deity within!)
True to my God, and to my Brethren's right,
I dare to suffer, but I scorn to sin."
The ? is awful. Grief's load[?] burst[?] succeeds:--
The mother clasps her sons in wild despair:--
Through weeping crowds Coisnon his victims lead:--
With hands upraised, the Father kneels in prayer.
And walk they forth defenseless[?] to their foes--
Lambs torn from shelter for the sacrifice?
Or round their guiltless heads do pinions chase
That, spreading soon, shall hear them to the skies?
Rowed from the shore, they traverse for the deep;
Till evening shades, the signals of the doom,
Find them embracing in their last, long sleep,
Beneath the engulphing billow, now their Tomb.
Great, though distressed, Toussaint's intrepid soul
Rallies men its energy sublime:
But, how shall truth and valour hold control
Betrayed by perfidy, and matched with crime?
More vile, more treacherous than death concealed
In reptile fang, the baseness of his foes
Intrudes, in silence, where his sorrows yield
To virtue's ready balm, serene repose:
A consecrated spot;-- for there he knelt
Each morn and eve, with his whose kindred mind
Had learned with his to trust, or ? melt
In grateful praise, as each want inclined.
Surprised with shackles in the midnight gloom,
To a far distant shore in secret borne,
From purjured tongues, he listens to his doom,
Tongues that fidelity and peace had sworn.
And has the Avenger heard the Hero's plaint
From Gallic Dungeon, watery, dark, and deep?
Yes--Heaven has burst upon the imprisoned Saint!
Yes--France on fields of blood has learned to weep!
When the dark story blots the record's page,
The sons of Gaul will blush his face to claim:
Toussaint's renown shall reach the latest age,
And marbles bear his venerated name.
Dinah Ball.