Ye bloody foes who slaughter'd my dear boy,
Come here, a poor abandon'd wretch destroy;
Here, here, direct in pity ev'ry dart,
Plant ev'ry jav❜lin in this breaking heart;
Life has no joys for me, but I will go
This moment to my lovely boy below.
Immortal sovʼreign of the starry skies,
Avenge my son, my dearest son (she cries)
Or with thy bolts, oh Jove, conclude my woe,
And plunge me flaming to the shades below,
That I may there behold my murder'd boy,
Far from the Christians' rage, with lasting joy;
Strike, and I'll bless the stroke that sets me free,
'Tis ease, 'tis mercy, to a wretch like me."
While thus she spoke, she saw her LANGO slain,
And lo! that moment fainted on the plain;
Her agonizing groans the warriors hear,

Sigh back her sighs, and answers tear for tear;
Their courage slackens, and the royal dame
With her dire anguish damps the martial flame.
Then good LOUVERTURE, while his sorrows flow,
And his black eyes indulge the gush of woe,
With all his chiefs command the weeping train,
To bear his mother to the town again.
And now the prince sustains a manlier part,
And mourns his brother with a warrior's heart;
With her he sends the corpse, a chieftain bears,
While round, his sad companions melt to tears.
As when some savage ranging o'er the plain,
Has kill'd the shepherd's dog or shepherd's swain,
While conscious of the deed he glares around,
And hears the gath'ring multitude resound,
In his grim jaws he bears th' untasted food,
And gains the friendly shelter of some wood.

Thus with deep sighs the chieftain bears the slain,
With all his members to the town again;
With solemn sadness thro' th' adjoining wood,
While flow'rs and lilies are bedrop'd with blood,
They now approach the town, the sable train
Rush'd forth to meet the mourners on the plain,
While plaintive clamors thicken in the winds,
Alarming youths, and maids, and gath'ring hinds;
The melancholy sound the forrest took,
The vallies echo'd and the mountains shook;
The distant matrons listen from afar,

Hear peals of groans, the fruits of horrid war.
As when some tempest o'er mid ocean roars,
And wing'd with whirlwinds, gathers to the shores,
With boding hearts the peasants hear from far,
The sullen murmurs of the distant war,
Foresee the harvest, levell'd to the ground,
And all the forest spread in ruins round;
Swift to the land the hollow grumbling wind,
Flies, and proclaims the furious storm behind.
Thus thro' the distant plain thick clangors rise,
And clouds of arrows blot the golden skies;
The children shriek, the infants trembling cry,
And to their weeping parent frighted fly;
Struck with astonishment the parents press'd
Their dear, dear prattling infants to the breast.
The natives now, then lo! the cruel foe,
Dye the green fields with crimson as they go,
Thus from high hills the torrents swift and strong,
Deluge whole fields and sweep the trees along;
When, lo! the wild winds meet the raging flood
And carries to the skies the shatter'd wood;
The yellow harvest of the ripen'd year,

And flatten'd vineyards one sad waste appear.
Loud shriek the matrons when the corpse appears,
And the whole town is melted into tears;

The feeble monarch sees his people's fright,

He hears their groans, and wonders at the sight;
He hears the Christians' breathe revenge and war,
He hears his chieftains shouting from afar.
As torrents roll increas'd by num'rous rills,
With rage impetuous down their echoing hills
Rush to the vales, and pour along the plain,
Sweep herds, and hinds, and houses to the main ;
The distant shepherd, trembling hears the sound;
The king thus hears his foes with grief profound.
And lo! he sees his son, the horrid sight,
He sees his chieftains bear him from the fight,
His
youngest son, his dear his only joy,
His darling LANGO, his unhappy boy;
He sees, and seeing, sickens at the sight,
His murder'd child just slaughter'd in the fight
In him the monarch saw with wild despair
The horrid image of gigantic war,.
He views his son, his eyes farbid belief,
But wrapt the father in a cloud of grief,
He strives to speak, the pow'rs of life decay,
He trembles, falls, and falling faints away:
At length recover'd, to his child he flew,

And strain'd him close as to his breast he grew;
Round tears pour down amain, " And oh !" he cries
Tears stopp'd his voice, and drown'd his languid eyes 3
Again with shaking arms, h' embrac'd his son,
"Alas my darling child," he thus begun ;

He strove to speak, but tears still swell'd his woe,
Ran down his beard, white as the winter snow.
The people rush to see the corpse, and stand

In ranks, all weeping on his either hand;
The infants, maidens, youths, a solemn show,
Each join the mourners in the public woe;
But nothing can the frantic sire restrain,

He sighs, he moans, but moans and sighs in vain :
Again he on the corpse his body throws,

Clasps his lov'd son, and to his bosom grows;

Sad groans burst from his heart while sorrows flow, He lies transfix'd in agonies of woe.

Now all collected he attempts to say,

What anguish dictates; but few words found way: “And is it thus, my dear, dear boy appears, Joy of life and comfort of my years;

my

Is this thy promise then, my son, with care
To shun the fight, nor mingle in the war?
Alas! too well I knew how honor's charms
Would fire thy youth to seek the rough alarms
Oh! dire alarms, too fond was thy delight
To learn the dreadful lessons of the fight;
I in the dregs of age, oh! cruel doom,
Usurp on nature, and defraud the tomb,
Still live and drag a load of sorrows on,
Live, and more terrible, survive my son;
Me in the battle if the foes had slain,

While all my forces fought the Christian train;
Oh! would to heav'n I dy'd for thee my son,
Thus end my days, thus set my evʼning sun;
'Twas not your fault, my chiefs, he fell so young,
No, 'tis the father's, who has liv'd too long;
With his slain son to blast his closing eye,
And wish in bitterness of soul to die.
With martial fury, and with glory fir'd,
My darling boy has gloriously expir'd ;

Yet to the bloody fight his friends he led,
And e'er he dy'd, twice fifty chiefs lay dead.
Great Jove I'm satisfy'd, he perish'd well,
His father thanks you, for in fight he fell.
Ah! lo thy years, proud WILLMORE, had he ran,
Till age confirm'd the hero in the man,
E'en thou hadst stood conspicuous to the sight,
'The most distinguish'd trophy of the fight.
But why with tears have I so long withheld,
Wretch that I am, the chieftains from the field
Go tell LOUVERTURE that I breathe below,

And bear the world a spectacle of woe;
Robb'd of my age's pride, my only joy,
'Tis that I wait his veng'ance for my boy;
His veng'ance on proud WILLMORE's guilty head,
Due to the sad survivor, and the dead;
'Tis all he now can to his father give,

'Tis for that only I endure to live ;

Life has no charms for me, but I should go

Pleas'd with these tidings to my boy below."

With these last words he swoon'd and sunk away,
And to his bed the chiefs their king convey.
Thus he, while shrieks and mournful clamors ring
Thro' the wide town, and round the fainting king;
Boys, mothers, wives, and sisters loud complain,
For fathers, children, and for husbands slain;
For their good king, surrounded by his foes,
Sunk in despair, o'erwhelm'd with mighty woes.
The Christians' rage the recent tombs that spread
The plains o'ercharg'd with carnage and the dead;
Their groans and pray'rs in curling volumes rise
To heav'n before the sov❜reign of the skies :
They beat their breasts; tears gush from ev'ry eye,
The distant woods, to their loud plaints reply.