The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Emancipation

Emancipation
[The piece below, was written upon the perusal of an article in a newspaper, announcing the Decree issued by the Executive of the Republic of Mexico, totally abolishing the system of Slavery within its limits, on the anniversary of National Independence, in the year 1829.]

Gladness in Mexico! A pealing shout, From franchised men, goes proudly o'er her hills; And the rich hymn is swelling up to Heaven, Bearing the full heart's gratitude. No more The wild bird springing upward from its nest, Or the free waters in their gushing glee, Seem taunting man that they are masterless, While his proud thoughts and swelling pulse are crush'd Beneath vile bonds. No more at eventide, The serf stalks gloomily to seek a home, He scarce can call his own; or goes at dawn Unwillingly to toil:—the heavy spell, That ‘numb'd his veins with leaden sluggishness, Hath lost its power; and now, his glad limbs bound Across the glorious earth, as though they were Nought but an essence. Hear ye not the voice Of his wild carol pour'd upon the air, As like the woodland bird “with folded wing He drops into his nest”—or goes at morn, With light and eager spirit to the toil From which no hand withholds the just reward! Oh, it is sweet to wear a heart, whose throbs Are stifled by no fetters—and an eye That quails not to the mightiest! But the soul Of him whose hand hath wrench'd the bonds of thrall From the sad bosoms that beneath them pined, Hath yet a higher joy!—and there is one,* Whose name the grateful Mexican shall teach His son to lisp, ere yet his infant lip Hath learn'd to murmur, father. But our land!— The curse is on it still!—the slave-fiend stalks Amidst our pleasant valleys and green hills; A tyrant to the tyrants he has made; Muttering fierce threats, and crowding on their hearts Visions and shapes of terror, like the wild And elfish faces that look forth at eve, On wilder'd travellers, ‘midst the cheating shades, And gibe and chatter at the fears they raise. So men go crouching to the demon power, Scarce daring e'en to syllable his name, Lest they should waken up his smother'd rage; And offering human victims at his shrine, Instead of nobly standing forth, like men, To drive him yelling from the glorious earth, That he pollutes and blackens with his tread. Whom call ye slaves? Are not the cravens such, Who dare not act with justice?—Men who prate In sweet smooth sentences, of christian love, And with much sympathy, lament the fate Of those from whose swoll'n limbs they will not strike One single link, in all their weight of chains? Strange! that the high capacities of mind, Should be so blinded by the gleam of gold— Till even the soul itself is valued less, Than “so much trash as may be grasped thus.”

(*Guerrero)