Poem by Jonathan Lefevre

The Enslaved

Up, Britons, up! ye trampled slaves, be free! 
Your banner, hope — your watchword, Liberty: 
Determination be your motto now, 
Stern be each eye, unflinching be each brow. 
Plant firm the standard — let it wave on high; 
To crouch in servile fear is infamy, 
		Britannia’s slaves!

Up, Britons, up! — what! fettered are ye now? 
Rouse, every arm! glance, every burning brow! 
Flash from each thigh a weapon, Multitude! 
Forward! ye trampled on — yet unsubdued — 
The badge of Freedom wear on every breast; 
For yet with plenty shall your homes be blest, 
		Britannia’s slaves!

Oh Liberty! abused, deformed, disgraced, 
By tyrants mocked, by knaves and fools misplaced; 
Rouse from thy slumber — from thy shackles bound, 
A million at thy voice will start around. 
Unfurl thy banner. Justice! glance thine eye; 
Nerve the weak arm with strength! ye glorious free, 
		Help us to conquer!

I heard a sigh beneath the banian tree. 
I looked, and lo! the heir of misery!
His fettered hands he clasped, in anguish groaned, 
Then looked to heaven! The waving forest moaned; 
The pale moon gazed. Just like some giant oak 
By lightnings scathed, he lay, and thus he spoke — 
		“Oh England, hear!

“I groan in bondage, while in Freedom’s land, 
Beneath the caress of her guardian hand, 
Ye know not slav’ry — wear no galling yoke, 
Nor toil for others’ wealth.” As thus he spoke, 
Another voice cried — “Hold! your eyelids steep 
With bitter tears, and bear the tearing whip 
		Both undisguised.

“With you ’tis open, avowed slavery; 
With us, ’tis masked — a damned treachery. 
Toil not for others’ wealth! What meaneth then 
That thousand squalid cheeks — those sighs of pain? 
One in his chariot drives amid the throng, 
The thousands round him scarce can creep along, 
		By famine crushed.”

Ye who are left, last of the garrison 
Which right defended, quit yourselves like men. 
The dwelling fired, and murder, are not yours: 
The steady eye, the unflinching hand, insures 
The fall of despotism — the tyrants’ flight; 
Then sheathed the sword, and ended thus the fight, 
		Britain is free!

Bristol, March 11, 1840

                            The Northern Star, March 28, 1840

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