Did then the bold Slave rear at last the Sword

    Of Vengeance? drench'd he deep its thirsty blade

  In the cold bosom of his tyrant lord?

    Oh! who shall blame him? thro' the midnight shade

  Still o'er his tortur'd memory rush'd the thought

    Of every past delight; his native grove,

    Friendship's best joys, and Liberty and Love,

  All lost for ever! then Remembrance wrought

  His soul to madness; round his restless bed

    Freedom's pale spectre stalk'd, with a stern smile

    Pointing the wounds of slavery, the while

  She shook her chains and hung her sullen head:

  No more on Heaven he calls with fruitless breath,

  But sweetens with revenge, the draught of death.