An African Slave, condemned for Rebellion, in Jamaica, 1762.
BY BRYANT EDWARDS, Esq. of Jamaica.
paft:-Ah! calm thy cares to reft!
Firm and unmov'd am I :-
In freedom's caufe I bar'd my breast,
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 skies and peaceful bow'rs,
I foon fhall wing my way;
Where joy fhall lead the circling hours,
Unless too long thy stay.
*He is supposed to addrefs 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 thefe bleft fhores-a flave no more!
In peaceful eafe I'll ftray;
Or roufe to chafe the mountain boar,
As unconfin'd as day!
No chriftian tyrant there is known
To mark his steps 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 ravish'd eyes!
-I reach the joyful hour;
Now bid the fcorching flames arise,
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' oppreft!
Thy kind embrace I crave!
Thou bring'ft to mis'ry's bofom reft,
And freedom to the flave!
Ipfe cava folans agrum teftudine amorem,
Te dulcis conjux, te folo in littore fecum,
Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.
T length efcap'd from every human eye,
From every duty, every care
That in my mournful thoughts might claim a fhare,
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 ftores of grief,
Of grief furpaffing every other wee,
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.
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 shall you now behold her more:
Nor will fhe 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.
Oft would the Dryads of thefe 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 scorn 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.
In vain I look around
O'er all the well known ground
My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry;
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