Sonnet VI

High in the air expos'd the Slave is hung
    To all the birds of Heaven, their living food!
He groans not, tho' awaked by that fierce Sun
    New torturers live to drink their parent blood!
He groans not, tho' the gorging Vulture tear
    The quivering fibre! hither gaze O ye
    Who tore this Man from Peace and Liberty!
Gaze hither ye who weigh with scrupulous care
The right and prudent; for beyond the grave
    There is another world! and call to mind,
    Ere your decrees proclaim to all mankind
Murder is legalized, that there the Slave
Before the Eternal, "thunder-tongued shall plead
"Against the deep damnation of your deed."

Robert Southey

Robert Southey was an English poet, biographer, essayist, and historian. Born on August 12, 1774, he was associated with the Romantic school of poetry and is well known for his works such as 'The Story of the Three Bears', which is the origin of the famous Goldilocks tale. He served as Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom from 1813 until his death in 1843. His prolific output included not just poetry, but also significant biographical and historical works.

Robert Southey

Inscription VII. For A Tablet On The Banks Of A Stream.

Robert Southey, Simple Poetry

Musings On A Landscape Of Gaspar Poussin.

Robert Southey, Simple Poetry

Metrical Letter, Written from London.

Robert Southey, Simple Poetry

Eclogue V. The Witch.

Robert Southey, Simple Poetry

English

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Sonnet V

Did then the bold Slave rear at last the Sword
    Of Vengeance? drench'd he deep its thirsty blade
In the cold bosom of his tyrant lord?
    Oh! who shall blame him? thro' the midnight shade
Still o'er his tortur'd memory rush'd the thought
    Of every past delight; his native grove,
    Friendship's best joys, and Liberty and Love,
All lost for ever! then Remembrance wrought
His soul to madness; round his restless bed
    Freedom's pale spectre stalk'd, with a stern smile
    Pointing the wounds of slavery, the while
She shook her chains and hung her sullen head:
No more on Heaven he calls with fruitless breath,
But sweetens with revenge, the draught of death.

Robert Southey

Sonnet I

Hold your mad hands! for ever on your plain
    Must the gorged vulture clog his beak with blood?
    For ever must your Nigers tainted flood
Roll to the ravenous shark his banquet slain?
Hold your mad hands! what daemon prompts to rear
    The arm of Slaughter? on your savage shore
    Can hell-sprung Glory claim the feast of gore,
With laurels water'd by the widow's tear
Wreathing his helmet crown? lift high the spear!
    And like the desolating whirlwinds sweep,
    Plunge ye yon bark of anguish in the deep;
For the pale fiend, cold-hearted Commerce there
Breathes his gold-gender'd pestilence afar,
And calls to share the prey his kindred Daemon War.

Robert Southey

Sonnet III

Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops run
    Down his dark cheek; hold--hold thy merciless hand,
    Pale tyrant! for beneath thy hard command
O'erwearied Nature sinks. The scorching Sun,
As pityless as proud Prosperity,
    Darts on him his full beams; gasping he lies
    Arraigning with his looks the patient skies,
While that inhuman trader lifts on high
    The mangling scourge. Oh ye who at your ease
    Sip the blood-sweeten'd beverage! thoughts like these
Haply ye scorn: I thank thee Gracious God!
    That I do feel upon my cheek the glow
Of indignation, when beneath the rod
    A sable brother writhes in silent woe.

Robert Southey

Sonnet II

Why dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hair,
    And to the deaf sea pour thy frantic cries?
    Before the gale the laden vessel flies;
The Heavens all-favoring smile, the breeze is fair;
Hark to the clamors of the exulting crew!
    Hark how their thunders mock the patient skies!
    Why dost thou shriek and strain thy red-swoln eyes
As the white sail dim lessens from thy view?
Go pine in want and anguish and despair,
    There is no mercy found in human-kind--
Go Widow to thy grave and rest thee there!
    But may the God of Justice bid the wind
Whelm that curst bark beneath the mountain wave,
And bless with Liberty and Death the Slave!

Robert Southey

Sonnet IV

'Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep
    As undisturb'd as Justice! but no more
    The wretched Slave, as on his native shore,
Rests on his reedy couch: he wakes to weep!
Tho' thro' the toil and anguish of the day
    No tear escap'd him, not one suffering groan
    Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone
In bitterness; thinking that far away
Tho' the gay negroes join the midnight song,
    Tho' merriment resounds on Niger's shore,
She whom he loves far from the chearful throng
    Stands sad, and gazes from her lowly door
With dim grown eye, silent and woe-begone,
    And weeps for him who will return no more.

Robert Southey

Sonnet X.

How darkly o'er yon far-off mountain frowns
    The gather'd tempest! from that lurid cloud
    The deep-voiced thunders roll, aweful and loud
Tho' distant; while upon the misty downs
Fast falls in shadowy streaks the pelting rain.
    I never saw so terrible a storm!
Perhaps some way-worn traveller in vain
    Wraps his torn raiment round his shivering form
Cold even as Hope within him! I the while
Pause me in sadness tho' the sunbeams smile
    Cheerily round me. Ah that thus my lot
Might be with Peace and Solitude assign'd,
    Where I might from some little quiet cot,
Sigh for the crimes and miseries of mankind!

Robert Southey