The slave dealer(poem) by Thomas Pringle
How does the Wanderer feel about the bloodshed he has cause
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.