For ev'ry virtue fam'd, ye British fair, Can ye this foul reproach unheedful bear? O rise auspicious, lead the liberal train, That aims to shake oppression's iron reign. A nation's councils oft your pow'r obey; The wars of nations own your sovereign sway. In soft humanity's congenial course, Your kindling charms will claim resistless force: When Beauty lifts the eye in misery's cause, Compassion's weeping form she gently draws From realms where Mercy, interpos'd, suspends The wrath-wing'd bolts, that awful Justice sends. Fainting, with such a course of loathsome views, And length of horrors, the dejected Muse Spreads her tir'd wings, and with desponding mein, Weeps o'er the close of the destructive scene; Sees the dire bark 'midst direr regions steer; Hears the plung'd anchor tell grim Slavery near; Beholds the fell Receivers fiercely pour, In savage swarms, upon the blood-stain'd shore, Sees their abhorr'd approach—with harsher chains, To load (curst act!) oppression's weak remains. Now o'er the gloomy ship, in villain guise, The shrouding canvass drawn, shuts out the skies. The pitchy curtain throws a shade unclean; Meet apparatus for the horrid scene. Marshal'd with fatal skill, in abject; bands— Forbearing heaven!—the _human purchase_ stands. Now rush the trading fiends; and, with fell sway Fasten rapacious on the shuddering prey. What shrieks of terror pierce the sickening skies— What floods of anguish burst their wounded eyes! As strife tumultuous shakes the _scrambling brood_— _Scrambling_ for _human flesh_—for _kindred blood_! In the hoar surge now dips the bladed oar; The crowded boat creeps to the guilty shore. Then shrieking wildness raises tumult high; To their low friends the parted wretches cry; With imprecating screams of horror wild, The frantic mother calls her sever'd child. One universal tumult raves around; From boat to ship responds the frenzied sound: With tenfold anguish bursts before the throne, Where _Justice_ sits, and calls the thunder down. Immortal Power! in whose impartial gaze, Nor clime, nor realm can vain distinction raise; No worm-rais'd station thy attention draws, Nor tinctur'd skin contracts thy ample laws; But, to thy bounteous eye, the extended frame Of ranks and nations brings the equal claim! How long wilt thou ascending cries withstand? How long the red-bolt press thy lifted hand? Or dost thou, rather, from the horrid scene Turn thy relenting eye to the soft mein Of prostrate Mercy, who with powerful tears, Arrests thy wrath, and the drear prospect clears.