The prince flies furious o'er the slip'ry ground; A thought that moment of his father's woe, Rush'd in his mind, and drove him on the foe: Proud WILLMORE saw him come, with fear and dread, He saw him come, and when he saw, he fled.
As the fleet stag, by the staunch hound pursu❜d,
Now bounds above the banks, now shoots along the flood.
He starts, he pants, he stares with wild amaze, And flies his op'ning foe a thousand ways; Close to his heels the deep mouth'd furious hound Turns as he turns, and traces all the ground; On his full stretch he makes his eager way, And holds, or thinks he holds the trembling prey : The hunters shout, the woods, the rocks reply, And the loud peals run rattling round the sky. Thus with preventive speed LOUVERTURE ran, Turn'd short, and fairly fought him, man to man. Now forc'd he stands, collected in his might, Defies the gen'rous prince, and waits the fight. Soon as he saw the sable chief advance Within due distance of the flying lance,
"Now, now my spear, and conquʼring hand, (he cry'd) For WILLMORE owns no deity beside,
Assist my vows, succeed my martial toils,
And strip yon negro of his bloody spoils ; My dearest LAMBERT his bright sword shall bear, His golden belt, his quiver, and his spear." He said, and as he said, his jav'❜lin flies, The spear glanc'd obliquely along the skies; But held its dreadful course, and starting wide, Drove deep its thirsty point in ZIMBOO's side; The valiant ZIMBOO, an illustrious name, LOUVERTURE's friend, from ancient EBO came; Unhappy ZIMBOO by another's wound,
He bleeds, falls, groans, and panting, bites the ground. As from some far seen mountain's airy crown, Subdu'd by steel, the tall ash tumbles down, And soils its verdant tresses on the ground, So falls the chief, his arms the fall resound; And big with grief, he views the fleeting skies, And turns his thoughts on EBO as he dies; He turns his thoughts, but turns his thoughts in vain, In hopes to see his native fields again.
The prince invokes the sov'reign of the skies, "Avenge my dear, "dear father's wrongs," he cries, And with the words the hissing jav❜lin flies : It pierc'd his thigh, and there its fury staid, The spouting blood the prince with joy survey'd ; Then from the sheath his flaming sword he drew, And all collected on the ruffian flew.
Brave LAMBERT sees his woes, th' illustrious son, Fears for his danger, and forgets his own; And while grief, rage and woe sets him on fire, With sighs, tears, groans, runs to relieve his sire. Incumber'd with the spear, the tyrant reel'd,
With tir'd slow steps, and pain, he quits the field; With mournful groans he leaves the purple land, Trail'd the long lance, that mark'd with blood the sand. His friends all busy in their sev'ral care,
Thro' haste or danger, had not drawn the spear.
Fierce springs the son against the foe; no word He spoke, but rush'd beneath the threat'ning sword; Flies to prevent the meditated blow,
And guard his bleeding father from the foe.
His men th' intrepid prince at distance plies, And with loud shouts of triumph rends the skies. Then mov'd with pity, the brave gen❜rous man Exhorts, begs, threats, and prays the youth in vain:
"Whither to death, ah! whither would'st thou run, And tempt an hand far mightier than thy own? Ah! yet, poor LAMBERT, from the field remove, You fly to ruin, urg'd by filial love; This gen'rous love already I revere,
Ah, then depart, and listen to my pray❜r: Depart in peace, least all my dreadful ire Rises, nor tempt, my friend, the furious fire." He warn'd, but warn'd in vain; the youth defies The prince, till all his wrath began to rise. He spoke aloud, "Then die ;" and at the word, He wields, and whirls aloft, his thund'ring sword; And rising to the blow, with force apply'd, The blade he bury'd in his milk-white side. Not with more ease the vulture from above, Shoots, seizes, gripes, and rends the charming dove; All stain'd with blood, the beauteous feathers fly, And the loose plumes come flutt'ring down the sky. The ruthless point, with mighty rage impress'd, Pierc'd thro' his scarlet coat and satin vest,
Which his dear ANNA's hands embroider'd o'er, And his fair breast was drench'd with purple gore. The prince now views the languid youth with woe, And from his eyes the gen'rous sorrows flow; And as he wept, he reach'd his hand and said, "To worth like thine, what honors can be paid? If future times will any credit give,
Thy praise, heroic youth, shall ever live : Poor, pity'd youth, too early lost, receive. The sole reward a genʼrous foe can give ; Lo! I restore thy arms, unhappy boy, Thy sword all spangled, late thy only joy : Yet LAMBERT, ev'n in death be this your pride, That by the great LOUVERTURE's hand you dy'd.”
Then round the corpse he calls the sable train, And rais'd himself the body from the plain : But ah, how chang'd, with blood disfigur'd o'er, His snow white limbs all horrible with gore, And shining circlets of his flaxen hair, Which ev'n a princess might be proud to wear. As the young olive in some sylvan scene, Crown'd by fresh fountains with eternal green, Lifts the gay head, in snowy flow'rets fair, And plays and dances to the gentle air; When lo! a whirlwind from high heav'n invades The tender plant, and withers all its shades; It lies uprooted from its genial bed,
A lovely ruin, now defac'd and dead.
Thus young, thus beautiful, brave LAMBERT lay, The prince, with honors, sent the corpse away. Meantime the sire mov'd to the shore, and there Bathes in the floods his wounds, in deep despair; He groan'd and languish'd on the sandy shore, There dry'd his sweat, and wash'd away the gore; There paus'd and panted, while the gentle gale Convey'd the freshness the cool seas exhale.
As when the rattling hail impetuous pours,
And the wide fields smoke with the rushing show'rs, To the safe shelving banks the swains repair, Or to some cavern'd rock, and shelter there; Wait till the furious tempest break away,
And then renew the labors of the day: The chief thus shuns, the tempest of the war, But hears the dreadful clangors from afar. The hapless father, father now no more, Transfix'd with sorrow, languish'd on the shore, Lean'd on an oak, with pain and anguish stung, And from a bough his sword all shining hung;
Gold was the hilt, a silver sheath encas'd The beamy blade, and golden hangers grac'd. As on his hand the chief his head reclin'd, He still enjoy'd the freshness of the wind; Much of his LAMBERT asks the pensive sire, And sends his men to warn him to retire : But all in vain, nor will the hero yield
Till carry'd breathless from th' embattled field. The soldiers bear him from th' ensanguin'd plain, Pale, languid, drench'd in blood, and newly slain; Deep in his side appears the grisly wound, His weeping friends attend, and mourn around, Now, lo! the father hears their groans from far, Then saw his slaughter'd son borne from the war ; He views the gaping wound with mighty woe, While down his cheeks parental sorrows flow: In deep despair he beats his breast, and tears His scarlet fring'd with gold, and silver hairs; Tow'rds heav'n he then with mighty anguish spread His hands, and hov'ring o'er, he kiss'd the dead; H' embrac'd his murder'd son, and weeping said, "And is he slain, the boy I lov'd so well, And was it in his sire's defence he fell? And oh can life the smallest pleasure give, Since LAMBERT dies, that his poor sire may live? Have I then lost thy life, and say'd my own, Sav'd by the death of my dear murder'd son? In my defence could such a son expire, A son like him, for such a guilty sire? Now, now I feel an exile's woe, the smart Of this deep wound lies raging at my heart; 'Tis keen, 'tis sharp, 'tis terrible at last, Nor half the bitterness of life is past;
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