BEHOLD, yon placid, plodding, staid old man,
His still and solemn features closely scan!
In his calm look how wisdom's light is shed,
How the grey hairs, become his honoured head!
Mark how the merchants bow, as he goes by,
How men on 'Change, at his approach draw nigh,
'Highly respected,' and esteemed; 'tis said,
His fame to Afric's farthest shore is spread!
Behold, his house!-if marble speak elsewhere,
'Sermons in stones' are with a vengeance here,
Whate'er the potent will of wealth can do
Or pride can wish, is offered to your view.
Those gay saloons, this banquet hall's array,
This glaring pile in all its pomp survey,
The grandeur strikes-one must not look for taste-
What's gorgeous, cannot always be quite chaste.

Behold, his heart! it is not all that's fair
And smooth without, that's staunch and sound elsewhere.
E'en in the calmest breast, the lust of gold
May have its firmest seat and fastest hold,
May fix its fatal canker in the core,
Reach every feeling, taint it more and more;
Nor leave one spot of soundness where it falls,
Nor spark of pity where its lust enthralls.
Behold, his conscience! oh, what deep repose,
It slumbers on in one long deadly doze:
Why do you wonder that it thus does sleep;
That crime should prosper, or that guilt so deep,
So long unfelt should seem unscathed, in fine,
Should know no shame, and fear no law divine.

Is there a curse like that which shrines offence,
Which hardens crime and sears the moral sense,
And leaves the culprit in his guilt unshamed,
And takes him hence unchanged and unreclaimed.
Behold, the peace that's owned by him who feels
He does no wrong, or outrage when he deals
In human flesh; or yet supplies the gold
To stir the strife, whose victims you behold.

The Cuban merchant prosecutes his trade
Without a qualm, or a reproach being made;
Sits at his desk, and with composure sends
A formal order to his Gold-coast friends
For some five hundred 'bultos' of effects,
And bids them ship 'the goods' as he directs.
That human cargo, to its full amount,
Is duly bought and shipped on his account;
Stowed to the best advantage in the hold,
And limb to limb in chains, as you behold;
On every breast, the well-known brand, J. G.
In letters bold, engraved on flesh you see.
The slaves by times are in their fetters used
To dance and sing, and forcibly amused,
To make the negroes merry when they pine,
Or seem to brood o'er some concealed design.
And when the voyage to its close draws near,
No pains are spared to make the slaves appear
In fit condition for the market stall;
Their limbs are greased, their heads are shaved, and all
These naked wretches, wasted as they are,
And marked with many a recent wound and scar,
Are landed boldly on the coast, and soon
Are penned, like cattle, in the barricone.
Tricked out for sale and huddled in a mass,
Exposed to ev'ry broker who may pass,
Rudely examined, roused with the 'courbash,'
And walked, and run, and startled with the lash,
Or ranged in line are sold by parcel there;
Spectres of men! the pictures of despair.

Their owner comes, 'the royal merchant' deigns
To view his chattels, and to count his gains.
To him, what boots it, how these slaves were made,
What wrongs the poor have suffered by his trade.
To him, what boots it, if the sale is good,
How many perished in the fray of blood!
How many peaceful hamlets were attacked,
And poor defenceless villages were sacked!
How many wretched beings in each town
Maimed at the onslaught, or in flight cut down!
How many infants from the breast were torn,
And frenzied mothers dragged away forlorn!
To him, what boots it, how the ship is crammed;
How many hundreds in the hold are jammed!
How small the space! what piteous cries below!
What frightful tumult in that den of woe!
Or how the hatches when the gale comes on,
Are battened down, and ev'ry hope seems gone;
What struggling hands in vain are lifted there,
Or how the lips are parched that move in prayer,
Or mutter imprecations wild and dread,
On all around, the dying and the dead:
What cares the merchant for that crowded hold,
The voyage pays, if half the slaves are sold!

What does it matter to that proud senor,
How many sick have sunk to rise no more;
How many children in the waving throng,
Crushed in the crowd, or trampled by the strong!
What boots it, in that dungeon of despair,
How many beings gasp and pant for air!
How many creatures draw infected breath,
And drag out life, aye, in the midst of death!
Yet to look down, my God, one instant there,
The shrieks and groans of that live mass to hear;
To breathe that horrid atmosphere, and dwell
But for one moment in that human hell!
It matters little, if he sell the sound,
How many sick, that might not sell, were drowned;
How many wretched creatures pined away,
Or wasted bodies made their 'plash' per day?

They're only negroes:-true, they count not here,
Perhaps, their cries and groans may count elsewhere,
And one on high may say for these and all,
A price was paid, and it redeemed from thrall.
If the proud 'merchants who are princes' here,
Believe his word, or his commandments fear,
How can they dare to advocate this trade,
Or call the sacred scriptures to its aid.
How can they have the boldness to lay claim,
And boast their title to the christian name;
Or yet pretend to walk in reason's light,
And wage eternal war with human right.

The pen does all the business of the sword,
On Congo's shore, the Cuban merchant's word
Serves to send forth a thousand brigands bold,
'To make a prey,' and fill another hold;
To ravage distant nations at his ease,
By written order, just as he may please:
'Set snares and traps to catch' his fellow-men,
And 'lie in wait' to link their fetters, then,
Send forth his agents to foment the strife
Of hostile tribes-and when their feuds are rife,
To waste a province to provide a prey,
Yet dare to make humanity his plea.

Is there no sacred minister of peace
To raise his voice, and bid these horrors cease?
No holy priest in all this ruthless clime,
To warn these men, or to denounce their crime?
No new Las Casas to be found once more,
To leave his country for this blood-stained shore;
And tell the titled felon of his deeds,
With all the freedom the occasion needs?
Alas! no voice is raised in Cuba-save
To plead for bondage, and revile the slave,
Basely to pander to oppression's aim,
And desecrate religion's sacred name.
Yet in this moral Golgotha, where round
The grave of mercy none but foes are found,

Some lone and weary pilgrim may have come,
And caused a voice to echo from this tomb.
From him, perhaps, the proud oppressors e'en
May hear the crimes, they still would strive to screen,
And find a corner of the veil they cast
O'er Cuban bondage has been raised-at last,
And some, perhaps, at length aroused may think,
With all their gold they stand on ruin's brink,
And learn, at last, to ask of their own breasts,
Why have they used their fellow-men like beasts;
Why should it be that each should thus 'depise
His brother' man, and scoff 'the stranger's cries?'
'Have they not all one Father who's above?
Hath not one God created them in love?
Are they not all in God's own image made,
Or were the words of life to be Obeyed?'
Or held unworthy of the Lord on high,
'He that shall steal and sell a man shall die?'

Perhaps, fanatics only in their zeal,
May think that others, thus should speak or feel,
And none but zealots dream, that negroes' rights
Were God's own gifts, as well, as those of whites.
Perhaps, the Cuban merchant too, may think
In guilt's great chain, he's but the farthest link.
Forsooth, he sees not all the ills take place,
Nor goes in person to the human chase;

He does not hunt the negro down himself,
Of course, he only furnishes the pelf.
He does not watch the blazing huts beset,
Nor slips the horde at rapine's yell, nor yet
Selects the captives from the wretched band,
Nor spears the aged with his own right hand.
The orphan's cries, the wretched mother's groans,
He does not hear; nor sees the human bones
Strewed o'er the desert bleaching in the sun,
Memorials sad, of former murders done.
He does not brand the captives for the mart,
Nor stow the cargo-'tis the captain's part;
To him the middle passage only seems
A trip of pleasure that with profit teems;
Some sixty deaths or so, on board his ship,
Are bagatelles in such a gainful trip;
Nay, fifty thousand dollars he can boast,
The smallest cargo yields him from the coast.

He need not leave his counting-house, 'tis true,
Nor bid Havana and its joys adieu,
To start the hunt on Afric's burning shore,
And drench its soil with streams of human gore;
He need not part with friends and comrades here
To sever nature's dearest ties elsewhere;
Nor risk the loss of friendship with the host
Of foreign traders, when he sweeps the coast.

But this most grave and 'excellent Senor,'
Is cap in hand with the official corps,
Receives the homage due to wealth that's gained,
No matter how, or where it be obtained.
His friends are too indulgent to proclaim
What deeds are coupled with his wide-spread fame.
'Tis true, he merely purchases the prey,
And kills by proxy only in the fray;
His agents simply snare the victims first,
They make the war, and he defrays the cost.

Such is the merchant in his trade of blood;
The Indian savage in his fiercest mood
Is not more cruel, merciless in strife,
Ruthless in war, and reckless of man's life!
To human suffering, sympathy, and shame,
His heart is closed, and wealth is all his aim.
Behold, him now in social circles shine,
Polite and courteous, bland-almost benign,
Calm as the grave, yet affable to all,
His well-taught smile has nothing to appal;
It plays like sunbeams on a marble tomb,
Or coldly glancing o'er the death-like gloom,
Creeps o'er his features, as the crisping air,
On Lake Asphaltes steals, and stagnates there.

Serene as summer how the Euxine looks
Before the gale its slumb'ring rage provokes.
Who would imagine, while the calm is there,
What deadly work its depths might still declare?
Or think, beneath such gently swelling waves
Thousands of human beings find their graves,
But who can ponder here, and reconcile
The scowl of murder, with its merchant's smile!

Behold, his friends! observe the kindred traits,
They must resemble, for one draught pourtrays
The tribe of Cuban traders, linked in crime
Of ev'ry grade in guilt, of every clime.
Stealers of men, and shedders of man's gore;
The more they grasp, the rage for gain the more,
Contagious guilt within their circle reigns,
And all in contact with it shows its stains.
Behold, the land! regard its fertile fields,
Look on the victims of the wealth it yields;
Ask of these creatures how they came to be
Dragged from their homes, and sold in slavery?
And when you hear 'the cry' of men 'go up.'
'Robbed of their hire,' and made to drink the cup
Of grief, whose bitter anguish is above
All human woe, the wretched can approve,
Think on their wrongs, and venture to reply,
'Shall not the land yet tremble' for this cry!

God of all light and truth, in mercy cause
The men who rule these lands to fear thy laws.
O'erthrow oppression, stalled in guilty state;
Raise the poor stranger, spoiled and desolate.
Reprove the despot, and redeem the slave;
For help there's none, but thine that here can save.
Thou who can'st 'loose the fettered in due time,'
Break down this bondage, yet forgive its crime;
Let truth and justice, fraught with mercy still,
Prevail at last o'er every tyrant's will.