Classic Poem

Of all thy foreign crimes, from pole to pole,
None moves such indignation in my soul,
Such hate, such deep abhorrence, as thy trade
In human beings!
Thy ignorance thou dar'st to plead no more;
The proofs have thunder'd from the Afric shore.
Behold, behold, yon rows ranged over rows,
Of dead with dying link'd in death's last throes.
Behold a single victim of despair,
Dragg'd upon deck to gasp the ocean air;
Devoid of fear, he hears the tempest rise;
The ship descending 'tween the waves, he eyes
With eager hope; he thinks his woes shall end:
Sunk in despair he sees her still ascend.
What barbarous race are authors of his woes?
With freights of fetters, who the vessel stows?
Who manufactures thumb-screws? who the scourge?
Whose navies shield the pirates o'er the surge?
Who, from the mother's arms, the clinging child
Tears? It is England — merciful and mild!
Most impious race, who brave the watery realm
In blood-fraught barks, with Murder at the helm!
Who trade in tortures, profit draw from pain,
And even whose mercy is but love of gain!
Whose human cargoes carefully are pack'd
By rule and square, according to the Act! —
And is that gore-drench'd flag by you unfurl'd,
Champions of right, knights-errant of the world?
" Yes, yes," your Commons said, " Let such things be;
If others rob and murder, why not we?"
In the smooth'd speech, and in the upraised hand,
I hear the lash, I hear the fierce command;
Each guilty " nay" ten thousand crimes decreed,
And English mercy said, Let millions bleed!