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Cloud-like that island hung afar,
Along the bright horizon's verge,
O'er which the curse of servile war
Rolled its red torrent, surge on surge.
And he—the Negro champion—where
In the fierce tumult, struggled he?
Go trace him by the fiery glare
Of dwellings in the midnight air—
The yells of triumph and despair—
The streams that crimson to the sea!
Sleep calmly in thy dungeon-tomb,[1]
Beneath Besancon's alien sky,
Dark Haytian!—for the time shall come,
Yea, even now is nigh —
When, every where, thy name shall be
Redeemed from color's infamy;
And men shall learn to speak of thee,
As one of earth's great spirits, born
- ↑ The reader may, perhaps, call to mind the beautiful sonnet of William Wordsworth, addressed to Toussaint l'Ouverture, during his confinement in France.
'Toussaint!—thou most unhappy man of men!
Whether the whistling rustic tends his plough
Within thy hearing, or thou liest now
Buried in some deep dungeon's earless den;—
Oh, miserable chieftain!—where and when
Wilt thou find patience?—Yet, die not; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen thyself never to rise again,
Live and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies,—
There's not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee: thou hast great allies.
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man's unconquerable mind.'
