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Burn on, thou humble candle, burn within thy hut of grass, Though few may be the pilgrim feet that through Ilala pass; God's hand hath lit thee, long to shine, and shed thy holy light Till the new day-dawn pour its beams o'er Afric's long midnight. Arthur T. Pierson, in "The Miracles of Missions," second series.
Of these, the most impressive was that which he called The Negro's Complaint, and of which the following is a copy: Forced from home and all its pleasures, Afric's coast I left forlorn, To increase a stranger's treasures, O'er the raging billows borne; Men from England bought and sold me, Paid my price in paltry gold; But, though theirs they have enroll'd me, Minds are never to be sold.
A Princess then beneath the palms Which wave o'er Afric's burning plains, The blood of Afric in thy veins, A golden circlet on thine arms. By sacred Ganges' sultry tide, With dreamy gaze and clasped hands Thou walkst a Seeress in the lands Where holy Buddha lived and died.
No arm to guard me from Oppression's rod, My will subservient to a tyrant's nod! No gentle hand, when life is in decay, To soothe my pains, and charm my cares away; But helpless left to quit the horrid stage, Harass'd in youth, and desolate in age! "But I was born in Afric's tawny strand, And you in fair Britannia's fairer land. Comes freedom, then, from colour? Blush with shame!
The vocalist himself was a picturesque object; his face was burnt black with Afric's sun, his bare head was wildly covered with long, black matted, and curly hair, but his eye was soft and serene; and, as he stretched his throat upwards to give compass to his voice, he seemed as if he would catch inspiration from the Prophet in heaven.
When young Nevil Beauchamp was throwing off his midshipman's jacket for a holiday in the garb of peace, we had across Channel a host of dreadful military officers flashing swords at us for some critical observations of ours upon their sovereign, threatening Afric's fires and savagery. The case occurred in old days now and again, sometimes, upon imagined provocation, more furiously than at others.
Hark! he answers. Wild tornadoes, Strewing yonder sea with wrecks, Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, Are the voice with which he speaks. He, foreseeing what vexations Afric's sons should undergo, Fixed their tyrants' habitations Where his whirlwinds answer No.
"Our eyes are yet on Afric's shores, Her thousand wrongs we still deplore; We see the grim slave trader there; We hear his fettered victim's prayer; And hasten to the sufferer's aid, Forgetful of our own 'slave trade.
Also, where is my sword? Gerard's lady. "Ask Tiber! Your best way, signor, will be to do it over again; and, in a word, keep pricking of Afric's beef, till your mind receives light. So shall you comprehend the matter by degrees, as lawyers mount heaven, and buffaloes Tiber."
This last letter followed me around from pillar to post, always just missing me and having to have the address scratched out and written over till you could hardly make head or tail of what was on it. "He asked me to write to the address he gave me, but whether it was in 'Afric's sunny fountain or India's coral strand, I can't tell now.
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