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.