The Death of



C 0.

An African Slave, condemned for Rebellion,

in Jamaica, 1762.

By BRYANT EDWARDS, Esq. of Jamaica.

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past :-Ah! calm thy cares to rest !

Firm and unmov'd am I
In freedom's cause I bar’d my breast,

In freedom's cause I die.

Ah stop!'thou doft me fatal wrong.:
Nature will


rebel ;
For I have lov'd thee very long,

And lov'd thee very well.
To native skies and peaceful bow'rs,

I soon shall wing my way;
Where joy shall lead the circling hours,

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 ;
Or rouse to chase the mountain boar,

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 !

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Now, Christian, glut ihy ravish'd eyes !

-I reach the joyful hour;
Now bid the scorching flames arife,

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 !
Thou bring'st to mis’ry's bosom rest,

And freedom to the Navę!

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Ipfe cava solans ægrum testudine amorem,
Te dulcis conjux, te folo in littore fecum,
Te veniente die, te decedente canebat.


T length escap'd from every human eye,

From every duty, every care
That in my mournful thoughts might claim a fare,
Or force my tears their flowing streams to dry,
Beneath the gloom of this embow'ring shade,
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 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 tufted groves, ye gently falling rills,

Ye high o'ershading hills,
Ye lawns gay-smiling with eternal green, .

Oft have you my Lucy seen !
But never shall you now behold her more :

Nor will me now with fond delight
And taste refind your rural charms explore.
Clos'd are those beauteous


in endless night, Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to shine Reason's pure light, and Virtue's spark divine.

Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice

To hear her heavenly voice,
For her despising, when she deign'd to fings

The sweetest fongsters of the spring :
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more ;

The nightingale was mute,

And every shepherd's flute

Was cast in silent scorn away,
While all attended to her sweeter lay.
Ye larks and linnets now resume your song,

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.

In vain I look around

D'er all the well known ground
My Lucy's wonted footsteps to defcry

Where oft we us'! to walk,

Where oft in tender talk We saw the summer fun


down the sky;
Nor by you fountain's side,

Nor where its waters glide
Along the valley, can the now be found :
In all the wide itretoh'd prospect’s ample bound

No more my mournful eye

Can aught of her espy,
But the fad facred earth where her dear relics lie.

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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
From an admiring world she chose to fly;
With Nature there retir'd, and Nature's God,

The filent paths of wisdom trod,
And banish'd every passion from her breaft,

But those the gentlest and the best,
Whose holy flames with energy divine
The virtuons 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,

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

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