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Such scenes of grief no human foe could hear,
Nor Satan's self relate without a tear.

LOUVERTURE hears his sire's commands and woe,
And while he hears, the filial sorrows flow,
Fierce rage succeeds, by mighty rage impel'd,
Turns from his chiefs majestic o'er the field:
Swift as the wind the great LOUVERTURE flew,
And led against the foe his warlike crew.
The chieftains all, and all the martial train,
All, all, rush'd furious to the deathful plain:
Beneath the heroes groans the trembling ground,
While clouds of dust arise, with shouts profound.
Now, lo! proud WILLMORE the fierce prince beheld,
From a high mound, approaching o'er the field;
He and his troops a genʼral fear confounds,
They shud'ring hear the shrill advancing sounds,
The sable squadrons wedg'd in close array,
In one firm body cut their desp❜rate way:
A peal of shouts that moment rend the sky,
The following moment the pale Christians fly;
But with disdain the fierce LOUVERTURE główs,
Nor wastes his fury on inferior foes;

He scorns to fight the men who stand their ground,
Or in their backs the flying troops to wound;
WILLMORE, and him alone, he calls aloud,
To fight, and hunts him in the bloody croud.
Now here, now there, the foe appears in sight,
Then, lo! he turns him from the fatal fight.
Thus at the panting dove the falcon flies,
The swiftest racer of the liquid skies;

Just when he holds, or thinks he holds his prey,
Obliquely wheeling thro' th' arial way,

With open beak and shrilling cries he springs,

And aims his claws, and shoots upon his wings

Thus still the prince unravels all his ways,
And hunts the foe thro' ev'ry various maze;
Now rushes furious thro' the parting croud,
With dreadful speed, and calls the chief aloud:
LOUVERTURE still pursues the hated foe,
His heart with grief, his eyes with fury glow.
As thro' the forest o'er the vale and lawn,
The well breath beagle drives the flying fawn;
In vain he tries the covert of the brakes,
Or deep beneath the trembling thicket shakes;
Sure of the vapour in the tainted dews.
The certain hound his various paths pursues.
Thus trembling with his fear the dastard flies,
Swift thro' the parting ranks, with sad surprise:
As the proud boasting soldier, raw and young,
Who always is victorious....with his tongue.
Then when the prince his cowardice had view'd,
That still the tyrant fled as he pursu❜d,
He first invok'd th' Almighty to redress
His father's wrongs, and pity his distress,
Assuage his grief, his fortitude display,
And wipe his tears, his gushing tears away.
No more he hunts the coward thro' the fight,
With grief he cries, "Wretch thou hast 'scap'd by flight
But long tho' shalt not thy just fate withstand,
If any pow'r assists LOUVERTURE's hand:
Fly then inglorious, but thy flight this day
Whole hecatombs of Christian ghosts shall pay.".
Then rush'd amid the cruel train....no bound

His veng'ance knew, but spread the slaughter round
The treach'rous foes he thinks it vain to spare,
Fir'd with his rage, he gives a loose to war.
Ye sacred Nine, assist me to display

The rage, the death, the terrors of this day;

What crouds of tyrants perish'd on the plain,
By sable chiefs and great LOUVERTURE slain:
First proud, imperious ALEXANDER falls,
And shrieks with fear, and loud for mercy calls;
First slightly wounded by the whizzing dart,
His sword he drops to mitigate the smart;
His hand the tyrant to the wound apply'd,
Fierce hiss'd an arrow, nail'd it to his side;
Swift thro' his side it cut an ample way,
In dust and blood the glitt'ring ruffian lay.
A chief that moment who from Britain came,
A first lieutenant, MASON was his name;
LOUVERTURE saw, and pierc'd the ruffian's ear,
Cold thro' his temples glides the thirsty spear;
A groan that moment issues with his breath,
Another follow'd, and he sunk in death;
His eye-balls start, he gasps upon the ground,
While all his soul rush'd shrieking thro' the wound.
Thy fate was next proud VINYARD, doom'd to feel
The 'vengeful fury of his flying steel:

As he to flight his trembling feet address'd,

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The feather'd veng'ance drove from back to breast;
The feather stood behind, the point before,

He fell, and falling drench'd the sands with gore.
A ruffian stopp'd the raging chief to view,

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The prince thus spoke, the wretch that moment flew:
"Unhappy thou, whose death our hands shall grace,
Fate calls thee hence, and finish'd is thy race;
No longer dream of slaves, nor tempt thy foe,
But pierc'd by this, to endless darkness go,
And add one spectre to the realms below."
Seiz'd with a trembling fear and sudden fright,
He shudder'd, wept, and turn'd his back for flight;
Between his shoulders pierc'd the following dart,

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Held its strait passage thro' his panting heart,
Peep'd thro' his breast and cut a grisly wound,
He falls, it nails him to the purple ground.
Thus he goes conquʼring thro' the crimson plains,
A single hero half an host sustains,

While feather'd deaths descend in iron show'rs,
And pikes and darts flung by the Christian pow'rs.
As when sharp Boreas blows abroad, and brings
The dreary winter on his frozen wings,
Beneath the low hung clouds the flakes of snow
Descend and whiten all the fields below.
So fast the darts from either army pour,
And poison'd arrows from the natives show'r.
MONDINGO from this scene of slaughter far,
Rag'd on the left, and rul'd the horrid war;
Hears the sad tidings by the voice of fame,
That his own brother young LANGO was slain.
The sable warrior heard with silent woe,
While down his cheeks the tears unbidden flow;
But rage succeeds, by mighty rage impel'd,
He tow'rs majestic o'er th' embattled field,
Bears in the public grief an ample part,
But mourns his brother with a warrior's heart:
His grief all furious drives him on the foe,
While from his eyes the silent sorrows flow.
Loud groans proclaim his progress thro' the plain,
O'er heaps of carnage, mountains of the slain.
Thus the fierce prince o'ertakes a flying foe,
And with his sword high rising to the blow,
He struck his head, and lopp'd his face away,
The crashing bones before its force gave way,
Forc'd from their ghastly orbs the brains and gore,
And bloody eye-balls tumble on the shore;
The soul all furious seeks the realms of night,

And flutters shrieking from the golden light;
But oft it rushes to the corpse again,

And shrieks for help, but shrieks, alas! in vain.
With grief and fury haughty ALBERT burns,
And fraught with veng'ance, to the hero turns:
"How proud MONDINGO glories in his fame,
And hopes this day to see our gen'rals slain;
Fierce as thou art, ev'n thou may'st stain with gore,
With all your chiefs, your own paternal shore ;
Nor hope to see our valiant WILLMORE slain,
Vain is that hope, that expectation vain."
The chieftain views him with a dreadful look,
Prepares his weapon, nor a sentence spoke:
The ruffian sees the lance, and seeing fears,
Nor dar'd to fight, but begg'd his life with tears ;
For loath he was to yield his youthful breath,
And shudder'd at the thought of instant death.
MONDINGO rais'd his spear prepar'd to wound,
The tyrant fell extended on the ground:
And while above the dart suspended stood,
Longing to dip its point in hostile blood,

One hand embrac'd his knees, one stopp'd the dart, While thus these melting words attempt his heart; "Two sons, alas! my hapless mother bore,

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And must one spear then drench each brother's gore,
Must I now die, when he just dy'd before?
Some fiend urg'd me to stop, I'm doom'd to die;
How from that dreadful arm can slavers fly!
If ever yet soft pity touch'd thy mind,

Ah! think me not too much of WILLMORE's kind:
Not the same mother gave thy suppliant breath,
With him who wrought thy loving LANGO's death."
These words attended witir a show'r of tears,
I

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