For the set-foot-on new-found sand,
We set sail from mosaic to mosaic shore—
Our black slave-belly churning, evermore.

In the distance
We saw a strange, ominous dome.
So dense it seemed,
As if crafted from molten slick!
As if crfated from an accumulated Earth-spit.
As if fashioned from one complete object.
Clearly crafted and fashioned by Futurity's hand;
He who strove upwards and did not question what He saw as progression.
Futurity: He who would compel me to free my stock of black slaves once we reached this sequestered clump of land;
For these isles seemed no place for men with torn and shackled hands.
For these isles seemed a place where shackled slaves would free themselves! and feed on their master's bone strands.