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An African Slave, condemned for Rebellion,
in Jamaica, 1762.
BRYANT EDWARDS, Esq. of Jamaica.
cares to rest !
In freedom's cause I die.
Ah stop! thou doft me fatal wrong:
Nature will yet rebel ;
To native skies and peaceful bow'rs,
I foon fhall wing my way.
Unless too long thy stay.
* He is supposed to address his wife at the place of execution,
O speed, fair sun! thy course divine ;
My Abala remove ;
And I for ever love :
On these blest shores-a slave no more !
In peaceful ease I'll ftray ;
As unconfin'd as day!
No christian tyrant there is known
To mark his steps with blood, Nor fable mis'ry's piercing moan
Resounds through ev'ry wood!
Yet I have heard the melting tongue,
Have seen the falling tear;
Ah! that such hearts are rare !
Now, Chriftian, glut thy ravish'd eyes!
I reach the joyful hour ;
And these poor limbs devour :
But know, pale tyrant, 'tis not thine
Eternal war to wage ;
To mock thy baffled rage.
O death, how welcome to th' opprest!
Thy kind embrace I crave !
And freedom to the flave!
Ipfe cava solans ægrum testudine amorem,
A From every duty, every care
That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,
And pour forth all my stores of grief,
Of grief surpassing every other woe.
Can on th' enobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move Our grofs defires, inelegant and low.
Ye high o'ershading hills,
Oft have you my Lucy seen!
Nor will she now with fond delight
pure light, and Virtue's spark divine.
To hear her heavenly voice,
The sweetest songsters of the spring :
The nightingale was mute,
And every shepherd's fute
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.
In vain I look around
O’er all the well known ground
Where oft we us'd to walk,
Where oft in tender talk
Nor by yon fountain's fide,
Nor where its waters glide
No more my mournful eye
Can aught of her espy, But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.
To your fequefter'd dales
And flow'r-embroider'd vales
The filent paths of wisdoni trod,
But those the gentlest and the best,
Who now your infant steps shall guide ?
virtue would have form’d your Youth, And strew'd with flow'rs the thorny ways of Truth?