Did then the bold slave rear at last the sword Of vengeance? drenched he deep its thirsty blade In the cold bosom of his tyrant lord? Oh! who shall blame him? through the midnight shade Still o'er his tortured memory rushed the thought Of every past delight; his native grove, Friendship's best joys, and liberty and love, All lost for ever! then remembrance wrought His soul to madness: round his restless bed Freedom's pale specter stalked, with a stern smile Pointing the wounds of slavery, the while She shook her chains and hung her sullen head: No more on Heaven he calls with fruitless breath, But sweetens with revenge, the draught of death. |