For thou waſt born where never gentle Muſe 85
On Valour's grave the flow'rs of Genius ſtrews;
And thou waſt born where no recording page
Plucks the fair deed from Time's devouring rage.
Had Fortune plac'd thee on ſome happier coaſt,
Where poliſh'd souls heroic virtue boaſt, 90
To thee, who ſought'ſt a voluntary grave,
Th' uninjur'd honours of thy name to ſave,
Whoſe generous arm thy barbarous Master ſpar'd,
Altars had ſmok'd, and temples had been rear'd.
Whene'er to Afric's ſhores I turn my eyes, 95
Horrors of deepeſt, deadlieſt guilt ariſe;
return, you have condemned me to a puniſhment of which I muſt ever have borne the marks: thus only I can avoid them;" ſo ſaying, he drew the knife with all his ſtrength acroſs his own throat, and fell down dead, without a groan, on his maſter's body.
I ſee,
