Small thought retrieves the spirits of the brave
Think and subdue ; on dastards dead to fame
I waste no anger, for they feel no shame ;
But you the pride, the flow'r of all our host,
My heart weeps blood to see your glory lost."
Both armies start, and starting gaze around,
While all the plain re-echoes to the sound;
Th' admiring soldiers and the Christian train,
With mighty shouts, return him loud acclaim.
The sable warriors learn'd his force to fear,
And trembling, met this thunderbolt of war,`
His speech he seconds with his flying lance,
To meet whose point was brave REPONGO's chance;
MONDINGO's friend and in his native place,
Honour'd and lov'd, a friend to human race;
Long, long he fought the foremost on the plain,
And many tyrants by his hand were slain.

As the fierce whistling lance brave LAMBERT threw,
Swift to the mark the thirsty weapon flew ;

Whose forky point above his elbow tore,

Deep pierc'd his arm, and drank the spouting gore;
And lo, the wounded chief his foe address'd,

The purple current wand'ring o'er his breast,
But first embrac'd his knees, and try'd with art
To move his tender sympathetic heart:
"By thy dear father's love thy suppliant spare,
By all the hopes of his intrepid heir,
Preserve, victorious chief this life alone,
To glad a living father and a son;
High in his hut are bars of silver roll'd,
With heaps of golden dust and labour'd gold;
These to procure my ransom he'll resign,
The war depends not on a life like mine;
One, one poor life can no such diff'rence yield,

Nor turn the mighty balance of the field."

His words the hero touch'd with gen'rous woe,
Mov'd his kind heart, while tears began to flow;
He instantly releas'd his panting foe.

Thus he, while LANGO on the distant plain,

}

Sent feather'd deaths among the Christian train ;
Twelve poison'd arrows from his bow had fled,
And by their points twelve officers lay dead;
When lo! proud WILLMORE, LAMBERT'S haughty sire,
Beheld the youth, and his determin'd fire;
He saw, and rush'd to meet the youthful foe,
And sent his voice before him as he flew ;
Thro' cleaving ranks he thunders void of fear,
With furious speed, and rushes to the war :
"Forbear, forbear, nor touch my due, (he cries)
For LANGO, LANGO is your genʼral's prize;
To me, to me, belongs the dreadful fight,
Oh; that his sire could view the pleasing sight:

Thou LAMBERT, thou young LANGO's arms shall bear,
A living trophy of my deeds in war."

He said, and at the word the Christian train

Retir'd at once, and left an open plain ;

The youth with wonder saw the parting band,

Heard the proud challenge, and the stern command ;
Then view'a his limbs, and his gigantic size,
And to his haughty foe in brief replies :
"Now by thy glitt'ring spoils I shall acquire
Immortal fame, or gloriously expire;

Then vaunt no more, for know almighty Jove
Beholds the fight, impartial from above;
The strength you boast from him alone is giv'n,
And know, proud chief, my fate depends on heav'n;
To thee presumptuous, as thou art unknown,
Or what must prove my fortune or thy own;

Boasting is but an art our foes to blind,
And with false terrors sink another's mind;
But know whatever fate I am to try,
By no dishonest wound shall LANGO die!
I shall not fall a fugitive at least,

My soul shall bravely issue at my breast;

But first try thou my arm and may it dart
Death, and my father's woes deep buried in thy heart.”
He said, and saw the haughty chief appear
Within due distance of the flying spear.
Tho' far o'ermatch'd, LANGO his fortune tries,
But first invok'd the Sov'reign of the skies:
"Assist me Jove, and crown my bold design,
Let WILLMORE fall, and own the conquest mine;
Oh hear, immortal sire, my ardent pray'r,

Oh, thou whose thunder rends the clouded air,
Who in the heav'n of heav'ns has fix'd thy throne,
Supreme, divine, unbounded and alone;

Hear, and before the burning sun descends,
Before the night her gloomy vail extends,
Low in the dust prostrate my father's foes,
Protect my mother, and relieve her woes;
And if I fall, ah! pity her I pray,

Assuage her grief, and wipe the tears away !
Ah! comfort, comfort her when I'm no more,
Befriend her friendless, and relieve her poor."
The filial youth pray'd from his inmost soul,
While down his cheeks the tender sorrows stole ;
And in an instant from his spangled sheath,
Drew forth a feather'd messenger of death.
Fierce he surveys the foe, the bow he bends
To the full stretch, and joins the double ends;
One hand approach'd the point, one drew the bow,
And to his breast strain'd the tough nerve below;

And as some heav'nly minstrel taught to sing
High notes responsive to the trembling string,
To some new strain when he adopts the lyre,
Or the dumb lute refits with vocal wire,

Thus LANGO from his hand the string let fly,

Twang'd short and sharp like the shrill swallow's cry;
At once the whizzing feather'd veng'ance flies,

Hiss'd fiercely on and sung along the skies.
Pierc'd thro' his hat and bore his wig away,
Then on the crimson ground it guiltless lay.
LANGO beheld his arrow fall in vain,

No spear he had, nor other hope remain ;
He calls LOUVERTURE and demands a spear,
His friend and brother, but no prince was there;
All comfortless he stands, then with a sigh,
"'Tis so heav'n wills it, and my hour is nigh;
I deem'd my valiant brother heard my call,
He's absent, nor can see his LANGO fall;
No prince no sire assists me in my need,
Death and black fate approach, 'tis I must bleed;
No refuge now, no succour from above,
My friends forsake me, and almighty Jove,
Propitious once and kind; then welcome fate,
'Tis true I perish, but I perish great;
Yet in a mighty deed I shall expire,

Let future ages hear it, and admire."

He said, and at the word his sword he drew,
And all collected on the tyrant flew,

He graz'd the shoulder of the haughty foe,

Then WILLMORE shook his lance prepar❜d to throw,

And as he shook it," See, (he cries) if mine

Reach not the mark, a surer dart than thine."
He said, and threw the lance with forceful sway,
The hissing spear sung on its destin'd way ;

Fierce and sonorous flew the fatal dart,
Pierc'd his young breast, and panted in his heart;
His lab'ring heart heaves with so strong a bound,
The long lance shakes and vibrates in the wound.
So a young mountain lion nurs'd with blood,
In deep recesses of the gloomy wood,

Who rushes to the plains and uncontroul'd
Depopulates the stalls, and wastes the fold,
'Till pierc'd at distance from his native den,
O'erpower'd he falls beneath the force of men.
Down sunk the sable youth with pain profound,
He spurns, he beats, he grinds the bloody ground;
The lovely youth lay grim with dust and blood,
The soul came rushing with the purple flood;
To long eternity it wings its way,
The beauteous body left a load of clay.
With blood his sable limbs are purpled o'er,
And grim in death, he welters in his gore.
As a gay rose with blooming beauty crown'd,
Cut by the scythe lies languid on the ground,
Or some tall flow'r that overcharg'd with rain,
Bends the faint head, and sinks upon the plain :
Thus sad, thus languishingly sweet he lies,
His head declin'd and drooping as he dies.
The thronging ruffians view with wond'ring eyes
His youth and beauty, and proportion'd size,
When lo! as the brave youth extended lay,
They lopp'd his head, and quivering limbs away.
Proud WILLMORE strode triumphant o'er the dead,
And to the sable Chieftains thus he said:
"Go, be this message to your monarch known,
Such as the sire deserves I send the son;
Unbrib'd, unsought his relics I bestow,
If funeral honours can relieve his woe."