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WHITTIER'S POEMS
by
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE
Toussaint L'Ouverture, the black chieftain of Hayti, was a slave on the plantation "de Libertas," belonging to M. Bayou. When the rising of the negroes took place, in 1791, Toussaint refused to join them, until he had aided M. bayou and his family to escape to Baltimore. The white man had discovered in Toussaint many noble qualities, and had instructed him in some of the first branches of education:/ and the preservation of his life was owing to the negro's gratitude for this kindness.
In 1797, Toussaint I'Ouverture was appointed, by the French government, General-in-Chief of the armies of St. Domingo, and, as such, signed the convention with General Maitland, for the evacuation of the island by the British. From this period until 1801, the island, under the government of Toussaint, was happy, tranquil, and prosperous. The miserable attempt of Napoleon to reestablish slavery in St. Domingo, although it failed of its intended object, proved fatal to the negro chieftain. Treacherously seized by Le Ciere, he was hurried on board a vessel by night, and conveyed to France, where he was confined in a cold subterranean dungeon, at Besaneon, where, in April, 1803, he died. The treatment of Toussaint finds a parallel only in the murder of the Duke d'Enghien. It was the remark of Godwin, in his Lectures, that the West India Islands, since their first discovery by Columbus, could not boast of a single name which deserves comparison with that of Toussaint L'Ouverture.
The moon was up. One general smile
Was resting on the Indian isle–
Mild, pure, ethereal; rock and wood,
In searching sunshine, wild and rude,
Rose, mellow'd through the silver gleam,
Soft as the landscape of a dream.
All motionless and dewy wet,
Tree, vine, and flower in shadow met:
The myrtle with its snowy bloom
Crossing the nightshade's solemn gloom–
The white erecopia's silver rind
Relieved by deeper green behind,–
The orange with its fruit of gold,–
The lithe paullinia's verdant fold,–
The passion-flower, with symbol holy,
Twining its tendrils long and lowly,
The rhexias dark, and cassia tall,
And, proudly rising over all,
The kingly palm's imperial stem,
Crown'd with its leafy diadem,–
Star-like, beneath whose somber shade,
The fiery-wing'd eucullo play'd!
Yes–lovely was thine aspect, then,
Fair island of the western Sea!
Lavish of beauty, even when
Thy brutes were happier than thy men,
For they, at least, were free!
Regardless of thy glorious clime,
Unmindful of thy soil of flowers,
The toiling negro sigh'd, that Time
No faster sped his hours.
For, by the dewy moonlight still,
He fed the weary-turning mill,
Or bent him in the chill morass,
To pluck the long and tangled grass,
And hear above his scar-worn back
The heavy slave-whip's frequent crack;
While in his heart one evil thought
In solitary madness wrought,–
One baleful fire surviving still
The quenching of th' immortal mind–
One sterner passion of his kind,
Which even fetters could not kill, –
The savage hope, to deal, ere long,
A vengeance bitterer than his wrong!
Hark to that cry!–long, loud and shrill,
From field and forest, rock and hill,
Thrilling and horrible it rang,
Around, beneath, above;–
The wild beast from his cavern sprang–
The wild bird from her grove!
Nor fear, nor joy, nor agony
Were mingled in that midnight cry;
But, life the lion's growl of wrath,
But, like the lion's growl of wrath,
When falls that hunter in his path,
Whose barbed arrow, deeply set,
Is rankling in his bosom yet,
It told of hate, full, deep and strong,–
Of vengeance kindling out of wrong;
It was as if the crimes of years–
The unrequited toil–the tears–
The shame and hate, which liken will
Earth's garden to the nether Hell,
Had found in Nature's self a tongue,
On which the gather'd horror hung;
As if from cliff, and stream, and glen,
Burst, on the startled ears of men,
That voice which rises unto God,
Solemn and stern–the cry of blood!
It ceased–and all was still once more,
Save ocean chafing on his shore,
The sighting of the wind between
The broad banana's leaves of green,
Or bough by restless plumage shook,
Or murmuring voice of mountain brook.
Brief was the silence. Once again
Peal'd to the skies that frantic yell–
Glow'd on the heavens fiery stain,
And flashes rose and fell;
And painted on the blood-red sky,
Dark, naked arms were toss'd on high;
And, round the white man's lordly hall,
Trode, fierce and free, the brute he made;
And those who crept along the wall,
And answer'd to his lightest call
With more than spaniel dread–
The creatures of his lawless beck–
Were trampling on his very neck!
And, on this night-air, wild and clear,
Rose woman's shriek of more than fear;
For bloodied arms were round her thrown,
And dark cheeks press'd against her own!
Then, injured Afric!–for the shame
Of thy own daughters, vengeance came
Full on the scornful hearts of those,
Who mock'd thee in thy nameless woes,
And to thy hapless children gave
One choice–pollution, or the grave!
Dark-brow'd Toussaint!–The storm had
risen
Obedient to his master-call–
The Negro's mind had burst its prison–
His hand its iron thrall!
Yet where was he, whose fiery zeal
First taught the trampled heart to feel,
Until Despair itself grew strong,
And Vengeance fed its torch from wrong?
Now–when the thunder-bolt is speeding;
Now–when oppression's heart is bleeding,
Now–when the latent curse of Time
Is raining down, in fire and blood–
That curse which, through long years of
crime,
Has gather'd, drop by drop, its food–
Why strikes he not, the foremost one,
Where Murder's sternest deeds are done?
He stood the aged palms beneath,
That shadow'd o'er his humble door
Listening, with half-suspended breath,
To the wild sounds of fear and death–
Toussaint l'Ouverture!
What marvel that his heart beat high!
The blow for freedom had been given;
And blood had answer'd to the cry
Which earth sent up to Heaven!
What marvel, that a fierce delight
Smiled grimly o'er his brow of nights,
As groan, and shout, and bursting flame,
Told where the midnight tempest came,
With blood and fire along its van,
And death behind!–he was a MAN!
Yes, dark-soul'd chieftain!–if the light
Of mild Religion's heavenly ray
Unveil'd not to thy mental sight
The lowlier and the pure way,
In which the Holy Sufferer trod,
Meekly amidst the sons of crime,–
That calm reliance upon God
For justice, in His own good time,–
That gentleness, to which belongs
Forgiveness for its many wrongs,
Even as the primal martyr, kneeling
For mercy on the evil-dealing,–
Let not the favor'd white man name
Thy stern appeal, with words of blame.
Has he not, with the light of Heaven
Broadly around him, made the same?
Yea, on a thousand war-fields striven,
And gloried in his open shame?–
Kneeling amidst his brother's blood,
To offer mockery unto God,
As if the High and Holy One
Could smile on deeds of murder done!–
As if a human sacrifice
Were purer in His holy eyes,
Though offer'd up by Christian hands,
Than the foul rites of pagan lands!
Sternly, amidst his household band,
His carbine grasp'd within his hand,
The white man stood, prepared and still,
Waiting the shock of madden'd men,
Unchain'd, and fierce as tigers, when
The horn winds through their cavern'd
hill.
And one was weeping in his sight,–
The fairest flower of all the isle,–
The bride who seem'd but yesternight
The image of a smile.
And, clinging to her trembling knee,
Look'd up the form of infancy,
With tearful glance in either face,
The secret of its fear to trace.
"Ha–stand, or die!' The white man's eye
His steady musket gleam'd along,
As a tall Negro hasten'd nigh,
With fearless step and strong.
"What, ho, Toussaint!" A moment more,
His shadow cross'd the lighted floor.
"Away, " he shouted; "fly with me,–
The white man's bark is on the sea;–
Her sails must catch the seaward wind,
For sudden vengeance sweeps behind.
Our brethren from their graves have spoken,
The yoke is spurn'd–the chain is broken;
On all the hills our fires are glowing–
Through all the vales red blood is flowing!
No more the mocking White shall rest
His foot upon the Negro's breast;
No more, at morn or eve, shall drip
The warm blood from the driver's whip:–
Yet, though Toussaint has vengeance sworn
For all the wrongs his race have borne,–
Though for each drop of Negro blood,
The white man's veins shall pour a flood;
Not all alone the sense of ill
Around his heart is lingering still,
Nor deeper can the white man feel
The generous warmth of grateful zeal,
Friends of the Negro! fly with me–
The path is open to the sea:
Away, for life!" –he spoke, and press'd
The young child to his manly beast,
As, headlong, through the cracking cane,
Down swept the dark insurgent train–
Drunken and grim–with snout and yell
Howl'd through the dark, like sounds from
nell!
Far out, in peace, the white man's sail
Sway'd free before the sunrise gale.
Cloud-like that island hung afar,
Along the bright horizon's verge,
O'er which the curse of servile war
Roll'd 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,
Beneath Besancon's alien sky,
Dark Haytien!–for the time shall come,–
Yea, even now is night–
When, everywhere, thy name shall be
Redeemed from color's infamy;
And men shall learn to speak of thee,
As one of earth's great spirit, born
In servitude, and nursed in scorn,
Casting aside the weary weight
And fetters of its low estate,
In that strong majesty of soul,
Which knows no color, tongue, or clime–
Which still hath spurn'd the base control
Of tyrants through all time!
Far other hands than mine may wreath
The laurel round thy brow of death,
And speak thy praise, as one whose word
A thousand fiery spirits stirr'd,–
Who crush'd his foeman as a worm–
Whose step on human hearts fell firm:–
Be mine the better task to find
A tribute for thy lofty mind,
Amidst whose gloomy vengeance shone
Some milder virtues all thine own,–
Some gleams of feeling pure and warm,
Like sunshine on a sky of storm,–
Proofs that the Negro's heart retains
Some nobleness amidst its chains–
That kindness to the wrong'd is never
Without its excellent reward,–
Holy to human-kind, and ever
Accepted to God.
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