« AnteriorContinua »
The Death of
An African Slave, condemned for Rebellion,
in Jamaica, 1762.
By BRYANT EDWARDS, Esq. of Jamaica.
Firm and unmov'd am I
In freedom's cause I die.
Ah stop!'thou doft me fatal wrong.:
And lov'd thee very well.
I soon shall wing my way;
Unless too long thy stay.
* He is supposed to address his wife at the place of execution,
O speed, fair fun! thy course divine ;
My Abala remove ;There thy bright beams shall ever shine,
And I for ever love :
On these blest shores-a save no more !
In peaceful case I'll stray ;
As unconfin'd as day!
No christian tyrant there is known
To mark his steps with blood, Nor sable mis’ry's piercing moan
Resounds 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 such hearts are rare !
Now, Christian, glut ihy ravish'd eyes !
-I reach the joyful hour;
And these poor limbs devour :
But know, pale tyrant, 'tis not thine
Eternal war to wage ; The death thou giv' t shall but combine
To mock thy baffled rage.
o death, how welcome to th' opprest!
Thy kind embrace I crave !
And freedom to the Navę!
Ipfe cava solans ægrum testudine amorem,
From every duty, every care
And pour forth all my stores of grief,
of grief surpassing every other woe, Far as the purest bliss, the happieit love
Can on th' enobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move Our grofs desires, inelegant and low.
Ye high o'ershading hills,
Oft have you my Lucy seen !
Nor will me now with fond delight
in endless night, Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to shine Reason's pure light, and Virtue's spark divine.
To hear her heavenly voice,
The sweetest fongsters of the spring :
The nightingale was mute,
And every shepherd's flute
Was cast in silent scorn away,
And thou, melodious Philomel,
Again thy plaintive story tell, For death has stop'd that tuneful tongue, Whose music could alone your warbling notes excel.
D'er all the well known ground
Where oft we us'! to walk,
Where oft in tender talk We saw the summer fun
down the sky;
Nor where its waters glide
No more my mournful eye
Can aught of her espy,
O lades of Hy, where is now your
boast ? Your bright inhabitant is loft. You the prefer'd to all the gay resorts Where female vanity might with to shine, The pomp
of cities and the pride of courts. Her modeft beauties shun’d the public eye:
To your fequefter'd dales
Aud flow'r-embroider'd vales
The filent paths of wisdom trod,
But those the gentlest and the best,
VI. Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns By your delighted mother's fide,
infant steps fhall guide ? Ah! where is now the hand whore itider care To every virtue would have foru'd your Youth, And firew d with flow'rs the ihorny ways of Truth?
Who now your