The Captive African Chief

The Captive African Chief

'Twas on that glad and glorious morn

Rejoicing freemen love so well,

A Chief, from distant Afric torn,

Lay chain'd within his prison cell;

And, as from troubled sleep he rose,
His own, his country's burning woes,

Rush'd on his soul, - and in his eye,

There flash'd the fire of deep despair

What reck'd he, though the cloudless sky

And dewy earth were smiling there,

Fresh as when morn o'er Eden broke,
And songs of new made birds awoke,

But when the song of triumph came,

From those who had his race opprest,

He burst in wrath the troubled flame

Which fiercely burnt within his breast.

His fettered limbs he sternly view'd,
And thus his strain of grief pursued:

"What mean those shouts so wild and gay,

Which long have burst upon my ear?

Why wake those martial tones today,

Which swell so free and loud and clear?

Why does the cannon's thundering voice
Bid all around, without, rejoice?

"Ah, this is freedom's festal morn,

When the proud tyrant's chain was broke!

When from the white man's neck was torn,

The galling load of slavery's yoke!

This is the cause why bells are rung,
And music on the gale is flung.

"Proud day! - upon thy glad return,

Joy brightens in the patriot's eye:

Millions of hearts with raptures burn, -

E'en sorow's self forgets to sigh:

On high the eagle banner floats, -
Loud sounds the trump and bugle's notes!

"Joy spreads o'er all the land, - from where

The North's wild mountains bleakly rear

Their snowy summits high in air,

And thousand streams are sparkling clear, -

To where the Southern vallies shine
With cotton flowers and rice and vines.

"And jess'mine bowers their fragrance shed,

And sweetest songsters wake their lay; -

To where the Western waters, spread

Beneath the heaven's unclouded ray,

Smile at the setting sun's decline,
And with a flood of glory shine.

"From lake and island, shore and bay,

From scenes were the bright sunbeams ever

Send down their glad and genial ray;

From hill, and plain and mighty river,

Millions of happy souls rejoice,
And give their varied transports voice.

"But to the fetter'd captive's mind,

Who torn from friends and home away,

And in the dungeon's gloom confin'd,

Condemn'd to pine from day to day,

These sounds of reckless joy and mirth
Fall like the cold damp clods of earth

"Upon the coffin lid - and bear

My spirit back to the lov'd hours,

Where first in early childhood's years,

I sported in the orange bowers,

By Niger's stream, all wild and free,
A mountain-child of liberty.

"But when the russian white man came,

To barter for his custom'd horde,

He gave my father's cot to flame,

My mother to the sword:

He bare me far across the wave,
A vile, degraded, Christian slave.

"They tell me that this land is free;

That here the exile seeks his rest;

That heaven design'd these realms to be

The asylum of the opprest:

A soil no tyrant's feet hath trod,
But freedom's bright and blest abode.


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"Oh God! and do they vainly jest?

With glozing lies their speeches frame?

Is not the negro here opprest?

Where is the burning blush of shame?

Where is compassion, mild and fair,
To save our race from deep despair?

"Long has our 'blood reek'd up to heaven;'

Long have our limbs their scourges torn;

Long on the cold night-winds of heaven,

Our sighs the hoarse sea-gale has borne,

And in their ship's accursed hold
Unsightly things our woes have told.

"Parent and child, - each tender tie,

Which human hearts together bind, -

Have all been cut remorselessly,

To glut the white man's sordid mind;

And powerless, bleeding Afric lies,
And hears her hapless children's cries.

"Oh thou who reigns in realms of bliss,

And listens to the captive's groan!

Shall we not be reveng'd for this?

Shall they not for our blood atone?

Will not the sword of justice sweep,
And teach their callous souls to weep?

"Yes, they shall weep; but bloody tears

Shall from their glazing eyeballs swell;

Mothers and tender maidens' fears,

With infants' wail, shall be their knell,

When o'er their heads destruction fell
Shall sweep their plains from deepest hell.

"Ah then a dreadful recompense we'll take,

On those whose soil our tears have wet,

Our fierce revenge we'll madly slake

At founts were passed the bayonet:

Then, then, the oppressor's soul shall feel,
The insulted negro's vengeful steel.

"In the high domes where music swells,

With bursts of sweetest melody,

Affrighted shriek and dying yell

Shall drown the midnight revelry,

While all around, heaven, earth, and air,
Shall redden with the crimson glare.

"Of burning towns, and cities fir'd

As when of old the Indian sent

His war-shoop through the forest wide,

And the still calm of midnight rent,

With sounds which told of coming woes,
And the hush'd heart with horror froze.

"Remember Hayti, and the hour

When France's proud squadrons sunk away,

Before the stern relentless power

Of those who broke the tyrant's sway, -

And freedom on the mountain air,
Spread out her banner free and fair!"

Thus felt and sung a Chieftain's shild,

From Housa, fast by Niger's wave.

Who, in the hour of battle wild,

Was made a captive and a slave, -

He felt within his generous soul,
A fire that would not brook control.

When all without was glad and free,

But he within the prison's gloom,

From out his grated cell could see

The pride of youth and beauty's bloom,

In gay procession, sweep along,
And heard them chant sweet freedom's song.

Long, long he gazed, till through his veins,

He felt the blood in anger rushing,-

Then as from clouds surcharged with rain,

Tears from his eyes profuse were gushing,

And down he sank o'erwhelm'd with woes,
And wearied nature sought repose.

Awhile sad sobs convuls'd his frame;

Awhile his thoughts all troubled were;

Now seem'd his father's cot in flame,

Now shrieks and curses rent the air, -

He hears his mother wildly call,
He sees his brothers, bleeding, fall.

The scene is changed - on the lone shore

Of his loved land he fettered lies;

He leaves it to return no more,

No more to see the twilight skies

Where Tombut's spires in splendor shine,
All brightly in the sun's decline.

The hold sends up th'unearthly groans

Of those who madly wish to die, -

Hoarse through the shrouds the sea breeze moans, -

Shrill sounds the startled sea-mew's cry;

Oft through the gloom the lightnings flash, -
On high the mountain billows dash.

Deep darkness shrouds the waters o'er;

Louder, and louder, blows the gale;

And now the fierce tornado's roar

Drowns e'en the captives' piercing wail'

Down sinks the ship, the crew, the slaves,
Beneath the wild and weltering waves!

Changed in the scene, - a holy calm

Spreads o'er his soul, and whispers peace.

Cool comes the gentle air-like balm,

And bids the man of passion cease;

Bending in beauty o'er his head,
The bright blue arch of heaven is spread.

Joy to the slave, his chains are broke!

Vanish his prison walls like shadows;

No more he'll wear the galling yoke,

But soon will roam his native meadows,

Where sounds than wild birds' songs more sweet,
Will the returning exile greet.

Chang'd is the scene, - his free bark goes,

Merrily over her homeward way;

Gently around the soft breeze blows,

Such as comes from the groves of Araby,

When brightly the summer ocean smiles,
And sparkling in sunlight lay the isles.

On highland, and cape, and winding shore,

He sees the golden harvest wave;

From river, and creek, and bay, no more

The felon sail bears off the slave;

And scenes where late echo'd the captives woes
In beauty, and peace, and joy, repose.

He roves through his native bounds again,

With a glowing heart and a flashing eye;

But a change has come over both hill and plain,

Since in chains and in sadness he pass'd them by;

Then curses were heard and shrieks, and wails,
Where now the glad song of the reaper prevails

And now in the ancient groves no more,

The rites of his once dark faith are done;

Dread Obi's terrific reign is o'er,

And deeds such as shamed the blushing sun;

And bright o'er her troubled sky is seen,
Love's rainbow from the clouds between

From the stormy Cape to the Nile's dark shore,

The darkness of ages rolls away;'

As the morning mists from the mountains hoar,

Goes up before the rising day,

And minds, like her forests, long dark as night
Now joy in the rays of heavenly light.

Oh blest is the hour, when the Sabbath morn

Sends the peal of its bells her vallies through,

And wide on the passing gale is born

The song of love that is ever new,

Which first on the dawn of a Saviour's birth,
Brought tidings of joy and peace on earth.

Now he stands on a cape which o'erlooks a scene,

Where a city's domes and minarets shine, -

Where below in the bay the white sail is seen

And round on the hill blush the purple vine,

And he hears the bell sent its summons to call
The willing crowd to the sacred hall.

With the eager press he along is borne,

To a lofty dome where, in bright array,

Youth, manhood and age, on the holy morn,

Have gathered to hear, and praise, and pray,

And give to God, in their thankfulness,
The increase of hearts which his mercies bless.

Now the choral hymn of praise swells high,

More sweet than ever was borne by the breeze

O'er the Summer seas, when the waves hush'd lie,

By the feebled sea-nymphs' symphonies:

For these strains ascend to the God of heaven,
For freedom from sin and slavery given.

Oh never did music more sweetly steal,

On the sleeper's ear in the hour of repose,

Than the words which the holy page reveals,

Of an end which shall come to the captive's woes;

When peace o'er the earth shall her wings expand,
And in blessings descend on his native land.

But hark! I hear a sound of wo,

That steals along the sea-girt shore,

And freshly bids our tears to flow,

For Ashmun's brief career is o'er.

Ceas'd be the strains of Fancy's lay,

Let Joy's exulting throb be still, -

The star of Afric's brighter day

Seems lost in Sorrow's night of ill.

Dim'd is that eye which brightly shone, -

Quench'd is that spirit's generous fire, -

Mute is that tongue whose every tone

Could hope in drooping breasts inspire.

The mind to plan, the soul to dare,

A feeling heart, were thine to claim;

And faith, which every ill could bear, -

And love, of purest holiest flame.

Gather ye round his tomb, - but bring

No wreaths of fading flowers;

Nor there a dirge of sorrow sing,

Ah no,; let silent grief be ours.

Departed one! 'tis not for thee,

That tears are shed above thy grave,

We mourn for those, the lately free,

Beyond the dark sea-wave.

Thou hast no need of sculptured line;

To point us where thy ashes lie,

A better monument is thine,

A people's grateful memory.

There is no higher meed of frame

We can on the bestow,

Than that with Mills we place thy name

And Wilberforce, below.

Amos Blanchard

2:33, p. 262-3; 2:34, p. 270

1828.11.07; 1828.11.14

From the New York Observer: A Poem delivered at the Anniversary of the Porter Rhetorical Society Andover, September 13, 1828