But these governments were barbarous, faithless, and regardless of the duties of humanity and justice. Treaties with them were evanescent. As in the days of Charles the Second, they seemed made merely to be broken. They were observed only so long as money was derived under their stipulations. Our growing commerce was soon again fatally vexed by the Barbary corsairs, who now compelled even the ships of our navy to submit to peculiar indignities. In 1801, the Bey of Tripoli formally declared war against the United States, and in token thereof "our flagstaff [before the consulate] was chopped down six feet from the ground, and left reclining on the terrace."[109] Our citizens once more became the prize of man-stealers. Colonel Humphreys, now at home in retirement, was aroused. In an address to the public, he called again for united action, saying, "Americans of the United States, your fellow-citizens are in fetters! Can there be but one feeling? Where are the gallant remains of the race who fought for freedom? Where the glorious heirs of their patriotism? _Will there never be a truce between political parties? Or must it forever be the fate of_ FREE STATES, _that the soft voice of union should be drowned in the hoarse clamors of discord?_ No! Let every friend of blessed humanity and sacred freedom entertain a better hope and confidence."[110] Colonel Humphreys was not a statesman only; he was known as a poet also. And in this character he made another appeal to his country. In a poem on "The Future Glory of the United States," he breaks forth into an indignant condemnation of slavery, which, whatever may be the merits of its verse, should not be omitted here. Teach me curst slavery's cruel woes to paint, Beneath whose weight our captured freemen faint! * * * * * Where am I! Heavens! what mean these dolorous cries? And what these horrid scenes that round me rise? Heard ye the groans, those messengers of pain? Heard ye the clanking of the captive's chain? Heard ye your free-born sons their fate deplore, Pale in their chains and laboring at the oar? Saw ye the dungeon, in whose blackest cell, That house of woe, your friends, your children, dwell?-- Or saw ye those who dread the torturing hour, Crushed by the rigors of a tyrant's power? _Saw ye the shrinking slave, th' uplifted lash, The frowning butcher, and the reddening gash? Saw ye the fresh blood where it bubbling broke From purple scars, beneath the grinding stroke? Saw ye the naked limbs writhed to and fro, In wild contortions of convulsing woe?_ Felt ye the blood, with pangs alternate rolled, Thrill through your veins and freeze with deathlike cold, Or fire, as down the tear of pity stole, Your manly breasts, and harrow up the soul?[111] [Footnote 109: Lyman's Diplomacy, vol. ii. p. 384.] [Footnote 110: Miscellaneous Works of David Humphreys, p. 75.]