Page:The poetical works of Thomas Campbell.djvu/38
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Who, sternly marking on his native soilThe blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil,Shall bid each righteous heart exult, to seePeace to the slave, and vengeance on the free!Yet, yet, degraded men! th' expected dayThat breaks your bitter cup, is far away;Trade, wealth, and fashion, ask you still to bleed,And holy men give Scripture for the deed;Scourged, and debased, no Briton stoops to saveA wretch, a coward; yes, because a slave!—Eternal Nature when thy giant handHad heaved the floods, and fixed the trembling land,When life sprang startling at thy plastic call,Endless her forms, and man the lord of all!Say, was that lordly form inspired by thee,To wear eternal chains and bow the knee?Was man ordained the slave of man to toil,Yoked with the brutes, and fettered to the soil;Weighed in a tyrant's balance with his gold?No!—Nature stamped us in a heavenly mould!She bade no wretch his thankless labour urge,Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge!No homeless Libyan, on the stormy deep,To call upon his country's name, and weep!—Lo! once in triumph, on his boundless plain,The quivered chief of Congo loved to reign;With fires proportioned to his native sky,Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye;Scoured with wild feet his sun illumined zone,The spear, the lion, and the woods, his own!Or led the combat, bold without a plan,An artless savage, but a fearless man!