On thy fair fame, my son, I left a stain,
My darling child, by fierce LOUVERTURE slain
'Twas me that brought thee to this hostile plain;
To him, to thee, my dear, dear child, I owe
All, all the deaths, such guilt should undergo;
And yet I live, and see the golden light,

way.

But soon will leave it, for I loath the sight.
'Twas me, 'twas me, my murder'd child, 'twas me,
That brought this death, this dreadful death on thee;
'Twas me," he said, and still, he strove to say,
But groans and show'rs of tears stopp'd up the
Fierce rage succeeds, with valour boiling high,
The gen❜ral rear'd him on his halting thigh;
With tearful eyes, and with his body bent,
Prop'd on his spear, and groaning as he went.
As when a ling❜ring fate the serpent feels,
Obliquely crush'd beneath the coach's wheels,
Or bruis'd and mangled by the cruel swain,
With some huge stone, writhes with the shooting pain,
And rolls and twists her scaly folds in vain;
Above all fierce, her glitt'ring volumes rise,
Flame in her crest, and lightning in her eyes;
But maim❜d below, and tardy with the wound,
Her train unfolded, drags along the ground:
So maim'd and slow the groaning tyrant past,
But aided by his spear, he reach'd the plain at last.
With conscious valor, and recoiling shame,

Grief, wrath and fury set his soul on flame.

Thrice on LOUVERTURE's name he calls from far,
Who hears the challenge, and accepts the war;
And while the tyrant hung his pensive head,
Th'intrepid prince with pious ardor said,
"Oh, mighty Jove, th' impartial god of light,
Inspire his soul to stand the proffer'd fight:

May he, all glorious, just, as well as wise,

Avenge my sire, and wipe his weeping eyes." The prince thus pray'd, and made his bold advance Fierce o'er the plain, and shook his mighty lance. "And why, (the chief reply'd,) this vaunting strain, The father perish'd when the son was slain; Strike then, and use your present fortune, strike, Death and your fabled god I scorn alike; No more....I come to die, but first bestow This parting present on the murd'rous foe." Swift as he spoke, the 'vengeful dart he sped, But miss'd the mark, and on it singing, fled; He heard it sing along the skies with woe, And curs'd the lance that spar'd the dreadful foe. Now peals of clamors thicken in the skies, Then with his flaming sword LOUVERTURE flies: "And where is now the lofty strain (he cry’d) Of haughty WILLMORE, and his scornfui pride ?” With complicated woe the chief replies, And as he speaks, stares furious at the skies, “Why, why, insulting foe, this waste of breath, On souls determin'd, and resolv’d on death; With that fond hope to battle did I fly, And fought, far less to conquer, than to die. My boy, when slaughter'd in the martial strife, Made no such contract for his father's life ; A worthless gift, to live at thy command, Nor would I take it from his murd'rer's hand; But if a vanquish'd foe this grace may crave, Oh let me find the refuge of a grave. Too well my guilt and folly have I known, Then guard my corpse, and lay me by my son : Ah! grant that pleasure e'er I yield my breath,

K

To share his sweet society in death."

He strove to hide the anguish of his soul,
But down his cheeks the tears resistless stole:
The prince that moment whirls aloft in air
His thund'ring sword, and lopp'd away his ear.
Now death, and guilt, and agonizing fear,
With dreadful furies, and with black despair,
In pomp terrific stand around, abhor'd

Th' atheist, sent by heav'n's almighty Lord;
To wreak his veng'ance they forever stand,
Watching his nod, and fly at his command;
Fierce as wild whirlwinds round each fury flies,
Proud WILLMORE's head, and chills him with surprise;
And clang their pinions with terrific sound,
Beat with their wings, their iron wings profound.
Aghast he shook, and trembled with affright,
While all their native horrors blast his sight :
Such flaming fronts the sable demons spread,
So dreadful hiss'd red serpents at each head,
The startled chief turns pale, and lo, a stream
Of sweat ran copious down from ev'ry limb;
Stiff rose his hair.....

Fierce, and more fierce, the gnashing furies rise,
And hell, all hell, was open'd in their eyes:
He heard a scream, or seem'd to hear, around,
Shrieks, horrid shrieks, hell, hell, was in the sound.
"Earth, earth, (he cries) thy centre open throw,
And screen a mortal in thy shades below!"
Thus while the ruffian cry'd, and trembling shook,
Th' intrepid prince the gen'ral thus bespoke :
"What methods, WILLMORE, yet remain for flight,
'Tis strength not swiftness, must decide the fight;
Try all thy arts and vigor to escape

Thy instant doom, and vary ev'ry shape,

Wish for the morning's rapid wings to fly,
Shoot down to hell, or vault into the sky."
"Not these insulting, empty vaunts I dread,"
Reply'd the trembling chief, and shook his head;
"Nay, but a God with fears my bosom move,
And he, my greatest foe, almighty Jove;
My crimes, my unbelief, (the tyrant said)
Has forc'd reluctant veng'ance on my head.",
He spoke, and speaking, cast his glaring eyes,
On the blue vault, and curs'd the golden skies;
All round his beating heart congeals the blood,
With chatt'ring teeth he quiver'd where he stood.
Now to his friends he turns his fi'ry eyes,
Again he curs'd the sov'reign of the skies.
The prince with indignation marks the part,
He wields his sword, and aims it at his heart :
It lopp'd his arm, and plow'd his ribs profound,
And stretch'd him languid on the purple ground.
So falls a poplar that in watʼry ground,

Rais'd high the head, with stately branches crown'd,
Fell'd by some artist with his shining steel,
To shape the circle of the bending wheel;

Cut down it lies, tall, smooth, and largely spread,
With all its beauteous honours on its head;
There left a subject to the wind and rain,

And scorch'd by suns, it withers on the plain.
His hands and eyes the vanquish'd tyrant rear'd.
And to the chief this moving pray'r prefer'd:
"Prince I deserve, nor deprecate my death,
Then use thy fortune, take my forfeit breath,
Yet if a parent's woes move sympathy,
Think what thy father is, and pity me."
Tears pour amain; he strove again to say
What horror dictates, but no word found way.

The warrior heard with philanthropic woe,
Repress'd his sword, and gaz'd upon the foe;
His words and tears to mercy now inclin❜d,
Still more and more, the victor's noble mind :
When lo! by chance the glitt'ring belt he spy'd,
His brother's belt, still shining at his side,
Which from the bleeding youth the ruffian tore,
And the bright spangled prize in triumph wore ;
His eyes fierce flaming o'er the trophy roll,
That wakes the slumbʼring veng'ance in his soul;
Then with loud accents and a dreadful look,
Stern and severe, the raging hero spoke ;

t

"Thou wretch accurs'd, canst thou to grace pretend,
Clad in my brother's spoils, my murder'd friend?
No, to th' unhappy, who unjustly bleed,
Jove gives posterity t' avenge the deed;
Go then, appease my father's veng’ance, go,
Go then, a victim to his son below,

}

'Tis LANGO, LANGO, gives the fatal blow.
Thus is my sire atton'd ;” (the hero said)
And bury'd in his breast the reeking blade.
A groan that moment echo'd to the shore,
Another follow'd, and he groan'd no more;
The soul rush'd furious through the gaping wound,
The body beat, the fingers grasp'd the ground.
That moment each tremendous fury springs
With rapid speed, and spreads their dusky wings;
The serpents hissing all around they fly,
For hell's dark doors, impetuous from the sky;
And as the spirit deprecates its woe,

They plunge down headlong, to the realms below,
The soul, the spirit, or th' immortal mind,
Unwilling leaves the spangled corpse behind;
Drag'd furious by the gnashing fiends away,