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The Death of .

CO.

A L I C O.

An African Slave, condemned for Rebellion, in Jamaica, 1762.

BY BRYANT EDWARDS, ESQ. of Jamaica.

*

IS paft :-Ah! calm thy cares to rest!

'T' Firm and unmov'd am Ι

In freedom's cause I bar'd my breaft,-
In freedom's caufe I die.

Ah ftop! thou doft me fatal wrong:
Nature will yet rebel;

For I have lov'd thee very long,

And lov'd thee very well.

To native fkies and peaceful bow'rs,

I foon fhall wing my way;

Where joy fhall lead the circling hours,

Unless too long thy stay.

*He is fuppofed to address his wife at the place of

execution,

O fpeed, fair fun! thy courfe divine;
My Abala remove ;-

There thy bright beams fhall ever shine,
And I for ever love :

On thefe bleft fhores-a flave no more!
In peaceful cafe I'll stray;

Or roufe to chase the mountain boar,
As unconfin'd as day!

No chriftian tyrant there is known
To mark his fteps with blood,
Nor fable mis'ry's piercing moan
Refounds through ev'ry wood!

Yet I have heard the melting tongue,
Have seen the falling tear;
Known the good heart by pity wrung,
Ah! that fuch hearts are rare!

Now, Chriftian, glut thy ravifh'd eyes!
-I reach the joyful hour;
Now bid the fcorching flames arife,
And these poor limbs devour :

But know, pale tyrant, 'tis not thine
Eternal war to wage;

The death thou giv'ft fhall but combine
To mock thy baffled

rage.

O death, how welcome to th' opprest!
Thy kind embrace I crave!

Thou bring'ft to mis'ry's bofom reft,
And freedom to the flave!

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Ipfe cava folans agrum teftudine amorem,
Te dulcis conjux, te folo in littore fecum,
Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.

I.

T length escap'd from every human eye,
From every duty, every care

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,
Or force my tears their flowing ftreams to dry,
Beneath the gloom of this embow'ring fhade,
This lone retreat, for tender forrow made,
I now may give my burthen'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my stores of grief,

Of grief furpaffing every other woe..
Far as the pureft blifs, the happiest love
Can on th' enobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our grofs defires, inelegant and low.

II.

Ye tufted groves, ye gently falling rills,
Ye high o'erfhading hills,

Ye lawns gay-fmiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy feen!

But never fhall you now behold her more:
Nor will the now with fond delight
And tafte refin'd your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are thofe beauteous eyes in endless night,
Thofe beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to fhine
Reafon's pure light, and Virtue's fpark divine.

III.

Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice
To hear her heavenly voice,

For her defpifing, when the deign'd to fing,
The fweeteft fongfters of the fpring:
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more;
The nightingale was mute,

And every fhepherd's flute

Was caft in filent fcorn away,
While all attended to her fweeter lay.
Ye larks and linnets now refume your fong,
And thou, melodious Philomel,
Again thy plaintive story tell.

For death has ftop'd that tuneful tongue, Whofe mufic could alone your warbling notes excel.

IV.

In vain I look around

O'er all the well known ground.
My Lucy's wonted footsteps to defcry ;

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We faw the fummer fun go down the sky;
Nor by you fountain's fide,
Nor where its waters glide
Along the valley, can fhe now be found:
In all the wide ftretch'd profpect's ample bound
No more my mournful eye

Can aught of her espy,

But the fad facred earth where her dear relics lie.

V.

O fhades of Hy, where is now your boast?
Your bright inhabitant is loft.

You the prefer'd to all the gay reforts
Where female vanity might wish to shine,
The pomp of cities and the pride of courts.
Her modeft beauties fhun'd the public eye:
To your fequefter'd dales -

And flow'r-embroider'd vales

From an admiring world fhe chofe to fly;"
With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's GOD,
The filent paths of wifdom trod,
And banish'd every paffion from her breaft,
But thofe the gentleft and the best,
Whose holy flames with energy divine
The virtuous heart enliven and improve,
The conjugal, and the maternal love.

VI.

Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns By your delighted mother's fide,

Who now your infant fteps fhall guide? Ah! where is now the hand whofe tender care To every virtue would have form'd your Youth, And firew d with flow'rs the thorny ways of Truth?

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