The Guinea Voyage: A Poem in Three Books. James Field Stanfield
In pale dejection weeping maidens stand—
Presageful, eye the liquid, wild abyss,
And wet with tender tears the trembling kiss;
Sink from the nerveless arm, in lost dismay,
As the dread signal speeds the boat away.
Three soul-expanding shouts the skies divide;
Three wild, responsive cheers re-echo wide—
The sweet vibrations tremble on the ear,
The last delightful sounds they'll ever hear!
And now the refluent boat evades the sight,
High-mounting waves the vessels disunite.
Still the white signal, fading, strains the eyes,
Still the lorn lover with his hand replies;
Till melting into air—the object lost—
And duty sternly calling to his post,
'Twixt him and joy th' eternal curtain's drawn,
No more of bliss to know returning dawn.
Swift from the breezy north, assisting gales
Impel the course, and swell the yielding sails.
Before the sightless breeze the vessel flies,
Clambers the mountain sea, and braves the skies;
Or thund'ring down the depths that foam below,
Ploughs up the surging brine with dashing prow.
The rattling cordage whirls, the sail-yards strain,
The winding pipe re-echoes o'er the main:
Firm in their stations, ply th' obedient crowd,
Trim the directing lines, and strain the shroud;
Tug at the beating sheets with sinew'd force,
And give the vast machine its steady course.
Now, all that meets the vainly straining eye,
Is boundless ocean and unmeasur'd sky.
Unless perchance, beyond the wat'ry trace,
Iberia's purple hills th' horizon grace,
Or on the right, with a whole vintage red,
Storm-beat Madeira waves her woody head.
Still o'er the pathless waste, with rapid force,
Led by th' encreasing ray, we urge the course.
Surrounding dolphins gambol o'er the tide,
And deck the blue-green wave with silver pride:
Swift from the beautious tyrant, the weak fry
Forsake the flood, and arid ether try,
Spread the moist wing—attempt th' untoward height,
And in short soarings urge their trembling flight.
The breathing porpus cleaves his pond'rous way,
The flouncing skipjacks bound in liquid play;
Bonitoes court the spray on either side,
And Albicores in shining mazes glide:
While huge Leviathan, in monarch mood,
Spooms, like an island, thro' the subject flood.
At length assisted by the boreal breeze,
And southward urg'd by swift-pursuing seas,
Close in our liquid path blue mountains rise,
Lifting their misty summits to the skies;
The clust'ring isles, (once Fortune's own domain)
That break the surges of th' Atlantic main.
High on our left, rear'd by volcanic fires,
Shading all ocean, Teneriffe aspires;
Above the topmost clouds, with giant might,
Heaves his Promethean peak to seize the light;
And thro' conducting veins, with chemic pow'r,
Recruits exhausted nature's fiery store.
While from the West ambrosial scents exhale,
As Palma shakes her orchards to the gale.
Up from the rocky beach the clusters run,
And spread their purple ripeness to the sun.
The varied scenes we pass with luckless speed,
The fleeting beauties rapidly recede.
For, from the mazy chambers of the sky,
Loos'd by chill Boreas, all the breezes fly;
From the bright pole with force gigantic hurl'd,
Urge the swift passage through the wat'ry world.
Unconscious winds, why waft your speeding gales?
Why breath your influence on the ruffian sails?
Is it yon ensign, waving high in air,
With British crimson dy'd, that claims your care?
Alas! unconscious winds—yon waving red,
With British honours so profanely spread,
Is not the hallow'd standard, whose high fame
Leads Albion's sons to deeds of proud acclaim;
Is not the flag, with whose protecting sway
Commerce exulting sweeps the wat'ry way.
Beneath that specious banner, the dark pow'r
Of savage rigour ripens ev'ry hour:
The bloating poison swells the feeble bound,
And bursting throws the rankled venom round.
Now ruthless Tyranny triumphant reigns,
Of Hope's sweet glow no soothing ray remains.
Far from fair Freedom's blissful regions thrown,
The abject suff'rers heave th' unheeded groan.
At ev'ry movement of th' imperious brow,
Beneath rude hands, the hapless wretches bow.
Should the keen glance mark indignation's eye,
Struck to the deck, the prostrate victims lie:
Or to the shrouds ingloriously bound,
They feel the lash in many a smarting wound.
Nor dares resentment lift th' avenging hand—
With sinking spirits, and a frame unmann'd—
For, now (the meal in stinted boon supply'd,
And cheering bev'rage purposely deny'd.)
The vital current flags—the sinews faint,
Th' exhausted voice scarce breathes the weak complaint:
A torpid languor seizes ev'ry vein,
And the soul sinks beneath th' oppressive chain.
Ye sons of Britain, who, in dangers brave,
Dare all the tumults of th' uncertain wave;
Whose dauntless minds alike