Most of the great poets
have been individuals of humble condition rising from the mass of the
people by that natural principle which causes the most etherial
particles to rise and the denser to sink to the earth. But, as Byron
exquisitely says, in one of the most wonderfully beautiful pages he
ever composed,
"Many are poets who have never penned
Their inspirations, and, perchance, the best;
They felt, they loved, and died; but would not lend
Their thoughts to meaner beings; they comprest
The god within them, and rejoined the stars
Unlaurel'd upon earth."
In the place where I now write amid several hundred Africans of
different ages, and nations, the most debased of any on the face of
the earth, I have been enabled to observe, even in this, last link of
the chain of humanity, the strong natural love for music and poetry.
Any little incident which occurs on the estate where they toil, and
which the greater part of them are never suffered to leave, is
immediately made the subject of a rude song which they, in their
broken Spanish, sing to their companions; and thereby relieve a
little the monotony of their lives.
I have observed these poor creatures, under various circumstances,
and though, generally, extremely brutal, have, in some instances,
heard touches of sentiment from them, when under the influence of
grief, equal to any which have flowed from the pen of Rousseau.
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