King Kobbena Eljen Poem by George Hannibal Temple

'And wouldst thou have this mighty arm,
That shakes the lance when war's alarm
Demands the brave,
Thus give, in one inglorious day,
My realms to England's haughty sway,
As though a slave?


'Must kingly pride thus humbly yield,
When conquered on the battle field
By foreign foe,
Who war at hell's inflaming call,
To plunge our bleeding nation all
In depths of woe?


'Not though an exile bound in chains,
Forced from my queen and native plains,
Along the strand!
Not though this bosom reek with blood,
And life come ebbing with the flood,
At thy demand!'


Thus spoke the king, and, in his pride,
He strove the tender tear to hide,
That trickled down;
But with disdain aside he thrust
The scroll, which found ignoble dust,
And not renown.


Long had the battle raged, and well
He braved the buckra's shot and shell,
Infernal hate!
King, prince and nobles bled that day,
But fickle Fortune would not stay
The hand of Fate.


Inglorious now the chieftain stands,
A captive on his native sands,
The golden spot;
The ransom asked, his kingdom whole,
But the proud purpose of his soul
Will humble not.


Much had he told of ivory store,
Of nuggets hid along the shore,
And more had told,
But that the stern, white Christian! race,
Would wade through blood to gain the place,
In quest of gold.


When Justice rises in her might,
And, from its sheath, with swiftest flight,
Her sword pursues;
What vengeance must o'erwhelm them all!
The plunderers, who, in their fall,
Receive their dues!