Within my heart's deep solitude,
Where ceaseless memories abide,
A voice from out the distant wood
Comes o'er the midnight's silent tide.
It speaks of scenes I fain would fly,
Of deeds I now would fain forget,
When, in my madness, eye to eye
I met my fellow-man with threat.
I see him, in his native land,
With chains upon his manly limbs,
A victim to the ruthless hand
Of him who traffics in men's whims.
I see him bartered, bought, and sold,
Like beast of burden, base and low,
His tears and groans, a tale untold,
That Heaven alone can truly know.
And as the dreary vision glows,
With all its horrors dark and dread,
How shrinking from myself I rose
And cursed the path my footsteps tread.
For this, my soul is stained with blood,
A stain that time can ne'er efface,
That cries to heaven with voice still rude,
And bars my entrance to its grace.
Oh, could I but recal the past,
And spurn the wretched trade of men,
How gladly would I bind it fast,
And never wander thus again.
Yet still, upon the midnight breeze,
That whisper tells my heart of woe,
And still, beneath the dark green trees,
I hear the voice of human woe.
Yet, ere my wretched life be o'er,
One boon I supplicate of Heaven;
To stain the scutcheon of my store
With not one blood-stained link unriven.
Then, though to living I return,
No longer cursed with guilty fears,
'Mid holy things my heart shall burn,
And heavenward mount with ceaseless tears.
The slave dealer(poem) by Thomas Pringle
How does the Wanderer feel about the bloodshed he has cause
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