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SLAVERY.
13
When the sharp iron[1] wounds his inmoſt ſoul,
And his ſtrain'd eyes in burning anguiſh roll;
Will the parch'd negro find, ere he expire, 175
No pain in hunger, and no heat in fire?
For him, when fate his tortur'd frame deſtroys,
What hope of preſent fame, or future joys?
For this, have heroes ſhorten'd nature's date;
For that, have martyrs gladly met their fate; 180
But him, forlorn, no hero's pride ſuſtains,
No martyr's bliſsful viſions ſooth his pains;
Sullen, he mingles with his kindred duſt,
For he has learn'd to dread the Chriſtian's truſt;
- ↑ This is not ſaid figuratively. The writer of theſe lines has ſeen a complete ſet of chains, fitted to every ſeparate limb of theſe unhappy, innocent men; together with inſtruments for wrenching open the jaws, contrived with ſuch ingenious cruelty as would ſhock the humanity of an inquiſitor.
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