." The motions of his spirit are black as night, ." And his affections dark as Erebus.." SHAKESPEARE.
If there exists a hell .- the case is clear .- Sir Toby's slaves enjoy that portion here: Here are no blazing brimstone lakes .- 'tis true; But kindled Rum too often burns as blue; In which some fiend, whom nature must detest, Steeps Toby's brand, and marks poor Cudjoe's breast. Here whips on whips excite perpetual fears, And mingles howlings vibrate on my ears: Here nature's plagues abound, to fret and teaze, Snakes, scorpions, despots, lizards, centipees .- No art, no care escapes the busy lash; All have their dues -- and all are paid in cash -- The eternal driver keeps a steady eye On a black herd, who would his vengeance fly, But chained, imprisoned, on a burning soil, For the mean avarice of a tyrant, toil! The lengthy cart-whip guards this monster's reign .- And cracks, like pistols, from the fields of cane. Ye powers! who formed these wretched tribes, relate, What had they done, to merit such a fate! Why were they brought from Eboe's sultry waste, To see that plenty which they must not taste .- Food, which they cannot buy, and dare not steal; Yams and potatoes .- many a scanty meal! .- One, with a gibbet wakes his negro's fears, One to the windmill nails him by the ears; One keeps his slave in darkened dens, unfed, One puts the wretch in pickle ere he's dead: This, from a tree suspends him by the thumbs, That, from his table grudges even the crumbs! O'er yond' rough hills a tribe of females go, Each with her gourd, her infant, and her hoe; Scorched by a sun that has no mercy here, Driven by a devil, whom men call overseer .- In chains, twelve wretches to their labours haste; Twice twelve I saw, with iron collars graced! .- Are such the fruits that spring from vast domains? Is wealth, thus got, Sir Toby, worth your pains! .- Who would your wealth on terms, like these, possess, Where all we see is pregnant with distress .- Angola's natives scourged by ruffian hands, And toil's hard product shipp'd to foreign lands. Talk not of blossoms, and your endless spring; What joy, what smile, can scenes of misery bring? .- Though Nature, here, has every blessing spread, Poor is the labourer .- and how meanly fed! .- Here Stygian paintings light and shade renew, Pictures of hell, that Virgil's pencil drew: Here, surly Charons make their annual trip, And ghosts arrive in every Guinea ship, To find what beasts these western isles afford , Plutonian scourges, and despotic lords: -- Here, they, of stuff determined to be free, Must climb the rude cliffs of the Liguanee; Beyond the clouds, in sculking haste repair, And hardly safe from brother traitors there.
