“Toussaint L’Ouverture”

By John Greenleaf Whittier

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 L’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 Leclerc, he was hurried on board a vessel by night, and conveyed to France, where he was confined in a cold subterranean dungeon, at Besançon, 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.

’T WAS night. The tranquil moonlight smile        

  With which Heaven dreams of Earth, shed down        

Its beauty on the Indian isle,—        

  On broad green field and white-walled town;        

And inland waste of rock and wood,                5

In searching sunshine, wild and rude,        

Rose, mellowed through the silver gleam,        

Soft as the landscape of a dream.        

All motionless and dewy wet,        

Tree, vine, and flower in shadow met:                10

The myrtle with its snowy bloom,        

Crossing the nightshade’s solemn gloom,—        

The white cecropia’s silver rind        

Relieved by deeper green behind,        

The orange with its fruit of gold,                15

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,                20

The kingly palm’s imperial stem,        

Crowned with its leafy diadem,        

Star-like, beneath whose sombre shade,        

The fiery-winged cucullo played!        

How lovely was thine aspect, then,                25

  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,                30

  Unmindful of thy soil of flowers,        

The toiling negro sighed, that Time        

  No faster sped his hours.        

For, by the dewy moonlight still,        

He fed the weary-turning mill,                35

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                40

In solitary madness wrought,        

One baleful fire surviving still        

  The quenching of the immortal mind,        

  One sterner passion of his kind,        

Which even fetters could not kill,                45

The savage hope, to deal, erelong,        

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,                50

  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;                55

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,                60

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 well        

Earth’s garden to the nether hell—                65

Had found in nature’s self a tongue,        

On which the gathered horror hung;        

As if from cliff, and stream, and glen        

Burst on the startled ears of men        

That voice which rises unto God,                70

Solemn and stern,—the cry of blood!        

It ceased, and all was still once more,        

Save ocean chafing on his shore,        

The sighing of the wind between        

The broad banana’s leaves of green,                75

Or bough by restless plumage shook,        

Or murmuring voice of mountain brook.        

Brief was the silence. Once again        

  Pealed to the skies that frantic yell,        

Glowed on the heavens a fiery stain,                80

  And flashes rose and fell;        

And painted on the blood-red sky,        

Dark, naked arms were tossed on high;        

And, round the white man’s lordly hall,        

  Trod, fierce and free, the brute he made;                85

And those who crept along the wall,        

And answered to his lightest call        

  With more than spaniel dread,        

The creatures of his lawless beck,        

Were trampling on his very neck!                90

And on the night-air, wild and clear,        

Rose woman’s shriek of more than fear;        

For bloodied arms were round her thrown,        

And dark cheeks pressed against her own!        

Then, injured Afric! for the shame                95

Of thy own daughters, vengeance came        

Full on the scornful hearts of those,        

Who mocked thee in thy nameless woes,        

And to thy hapless children gave        

One choice,—pollution or the grave!                100

Where then was he whose fiery zeal        

Had taught the trampled heart to feel,        

Until despair itself grew strong,        

And vengeance fed its torch from wrong?        

Now, when the thunderbolt is speeding;                105

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 gathered, drop by drop, its flood,—                110

Why strikes he not, the foremost one,        

Where murder’s sternest deeds are done?        

He stood the aged palms beneath,        

  That shadowed o’er his humble door,        

Listening, with half-suspended breath,                115

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 answered to the cry                120

  Which Earth sent up to Heaven!        

What marvel that a fierce delight        

Smiled grimly o’er his brow of night,        

As groan and shout and bursting flame        

Told where the midnight tempest came,                125

With blood and fire along its van,        

And death behind! he was a Man!        

Yes, dark-souled chieftain! if the light        

  Of mild Religion’s heavenly ray        

Unveiled not to thy mental sight                130

  The lowlier and the purer 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;                135

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 favored white man name                140

Thy stern appeal, with words of blame.        

Has he not, with the light of heaven        

  Broadly around him, made the same?        

Yea, on his thousand war-fields striven,        

  And gloried in his ghastly shame?                145

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                150

Were purer in His holy eyes,        

Though offered up by Christian hands,        

Than the foul rites of Pagan lands!

*        *        *        *        *

Sternly, amidst his household band,        

His carbine grasped within his hand,                155

  The white man stood, prepared and still,        

Waiting the shock of maddened men,        

Unchained, and fierce as tigers, when        

  The horn winds through their caverned hill.        

And one was weeping in his sight,                160

  The sweetest flower of all the isle,        

The bride who seemed but yesternight        

  Love’s fair embodied smile.        

And, clinging to her trembling knee,        

Looked up the form of infancy,                165

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 gleamed along,        

As a tall Negro hastened nigh,                170

  With fearless step and strong.        

“What, ho, Toussaint!” A moment more,        

His shadow crossed the lighted floor.        

“Away!” he shouted; “fly with me,        

The white man’s bark is on the sea;                175

Her sails must catch the seaward wind,        

For sudden vengeance sweeps behind.        

Our brethren from their graves have spoken,        

The yoke is spurned, the chain is broken;        

On all the hills our fires are glowing,                180

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:                185

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                190

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:                195

Away, for life!” He spoke, and pressed        

The young child to his manly breast,        

As, headlong, through the cracking cane,        

Down swept the dark insurgent train,        

Drunken and grim, with shout and yell                200

Howled through the dark, like sounds from hell.        

Far out, in peace, the white man’s sail        

Swayed free before the sunrise gale.        

Cloud-like that island hung afar,        

  Along the bright horizon’s verge,                205

O’er which the curse of servile war        

  Rolled 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                210

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 Besançon’s alien sky,                215

Dark Haytien! for the time shall come,        

  Yea, even now is nigh,        

When, everywhere, thy name shall be        

Redeemed from color’s infamy;        

And men shall learn to speak of thee                220

As one of earth’s great spirits, born        

In servitude, and nursed in scorn,        

Casting aside the weary weight        

And fetters of its low estate,        

In that strong majesty of soul                225

  Which knows no color, tongue, or clime,        

Which still hath spurned the base control        

  Of tyrants through all time!        

Far other hands than mine may wreathe        

The laurel round thy brow of death,                230

And speak thy praise, as one whose word        

A thousand fiery spirits stirred,        

Who crushed his foeman as a worm, 1        

Whose step on human hearts fell firm:        

Be mine the better task to find                235

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,                240

Proofs that the Negro’s heart retains        

Some nobleness amid its chains,—        

That kindness to the wronged is never        

  Without its excellent reward,        

Holy to human-kind and ever                245

  Acceptable to God.

  1833.