The Poor Negro Sadi Poem by Charlotte Dacre

AH! poor negro Sadi, what sorrows, what anguish
Oppress the lone victim fate dooms for a slave!
What eye or what heart o'er those sorrows shall languish?
What finger point out the lone African's grave?

First torn like a wretch from his innocent dwelling,
And torn from Abouka, the wife of his soul,
Then forc'd, while his heart was indignantly swelling,
To bow his proud neck to the despot's controul.

Think not, European, tho' dark his complexion,
Dark, dark as the hue of the African's fate,
That his mind is devoid of the light of reflexion,
And knows not distinctions of love or of hate.

And believe, when you see him in agony bending
Beneath the hard lash, if he fainting should pause,
That pure are to heaven his sorrows ascending,
And dear must you pay for the torture you cause.

Mark, mark the red blood that, so eloquent streaming,
Appeals to the Godhead thou sayest is thine!
Mark, mark the sunk eye that on heaven is beaming!
It calls deep revenge on oppression and crime.

The poor negro Sadi—what horror befel him,
To slavery dragg'd in the bloom of his years!
To the food he disdains the vile lash must compel him,
Ah! food doubly bitter when moisten'd by tears!

At length, in a moment of anguish despairing,
Poor Sadi resolves to escape, or he dies:
He plung'd in the ocean, not knowing nor caring
If e'er from its waves be was doom'd to arise.

He skims light as down, when at distance espying
A vessel, its refuge he struggles to gain;
And nearly exhausted, just sinking, just dying,
Escapes from a grave in the pitiless main.

But vainly preserv'd, sable victim of sorrow!
An end far more dreadful thine anguish must have;
Tho' a moment from hope it faint lustre may borrow,
Soon, soon must it sink in the gloom of the grave.

Soft, soft blew the gale, and the green billows swelling,
Gay sail'd the light vessel for Albion's shore;
Poor Sadi sigh'd deep for his wife and his dwelling,
That wife and that dwelling he ne'er must see more.

Oh, Britons! so fam'd in the annals of glory,
The poor negro Sadi is cast on your plains—
Oh, Britons! if just be your fame or your glory,
The poor negro Sadi shall bless your domains.

As yet see he wanders forlorn and in sadness,
By many scarce seen, and unpitied by all;
No glance yet his sunk heart has flutter'd with gladness,
Nor voice sympathetic on him seem'd to call.

In vain, wretched negro! thou lookest around thee—
In vain, wretched negro! so lowly dost bend;
Tho' a thousand cold faces for ever surround thee,
Among them not one is, poor Sadi, thy friend.

Three nights and three days had he wander'd despairing.
No food nor no shelter the victim had found;
The pangs of keen hunger his bosom were tearing,
When, o'erpower'd with torture, he sunk on the ground.

He clasp'd his thin hands, now no longer imploring
The succour which all had so basely denied,
In hopeless submission had finish'd deploring
The suff'rings he felt must so shortly subside.

On the step of a door his faint body reclining
Had sought unmolested to yield up its breath,
But hell-born tormentors forbade his resigning
Within their vile precincts, his sorrows to death.

They dragg'd the lone victim, in misery lying,
From off the cold stone where he languish'd to rest,
Defenceless they dragg'd him, unpitied—tho' dying,
His last wretched moments with horror opprest!

Now keen blew the tempest, and keener still blowing,
His shrunk heart scarce flutter'd, scarce heav'd his faint breath—
His blood was congeal'd, and his tears no more flowing,
Had froze on his eyelids, now closing in death.

Oh, Heaven! that seest this sad wretch expiring
By famine's keen tortures, unaided, alone,
Pure, pure to thy throne his last sighs are aspiring,
Tho' sable his skin, tho' unchristian his tone!

Oh, poor negro Sadi! what sorrows, what anguish
Oppress the lone victim fate dooms for a slave!
What eye or what heart for those sorrows shall languish?
What finger point out the lone African's grave?