Humanity, or the rights of nature, a poem in two books. By the author of sympathy [i.e. S. J. Pratt] |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
 | Humanity, or the rights of nature, a poem |  |
To trace each Virtue thro' the sultry Sands,
Next Negro Honour all thy praise demands,
In Cujoe's generous soul it meets the view,
And darts a glory thro' his tawny hue.
A band of Christian pirates sought the shore,
And many an Indian from their forests bore,
One soe, to Cujoe's cot was seen to fly,
Pierc'd by a dart, he begg'd in peace to die;
But soon the Tribes pursue, demand their prey,
“Scalp, scalp that wretch, they cry, in open day!
“Cujoe conceals the Man whose blood is ours,
“'Tis not our rage, 'tis justice that devours.”
Mean time th'exhausted Christian gasp'd for breath
When Cujoe rose, and stopp'd th'impending death:
“My Friends forbear, the guilty seek and slay,
“Pursue the race that stole our tribes away,
“May Ocean whelm them in the deepest wave,
“The guilty punish, but the blameless save!
“Of Guest and friend, ah! reverence the ties,
“Lo, this sick Christian on my faith relies,
“Here, in the rights of Friendship shall he rest,
“My arm his buckler, and his shield my breast
“This Cot his Citadel, and ere he die
“Here must your hatchets fall, your arrows fly!”
Honour prevail'd, their passions dy'd away,
And safe in Cujoe's hut the Christian lay.
Next Negro Honour all thy praise demands,
In Cujoe's generous soul it meets the view,
And darts a glory thro' his tawny hue.
A band of Christian pirates sought the shore,
And many an Indian from their forests bore,
73
Pierc'd by a dart, he begg'd in peace to die;
But soon the Tribes pursue, demand their prey,
“Scalp, scalp that wretch, they cry, in open day!
“Cujoe conceals the Man whose blood is ours,
“'Tis not our rage, 'tis justice that devours.”
Mean time th'exhausted Christian gasp'd for breath
When Cujoe rose, and stopp'd th'impending death:
“My Friends forbear, the guilty seek and slay,
“Pursue the race that stole our tribes away,
“May Ocean whelm them in the deepest wave,
“The guilty punish, but the blameless save!
“Of Guest and friend, ah! reverence the ties,
“Lo, this sick Christian on my faith relies,
“Here, in the rights of Friendship shall he rest,
“My arm his buckler, and his shield my breast
“This Cot his Citadel, and ere he die
“Here must your hatchets fall, your arrows fly!”
Honour prevail'd, their passions dy'd away,
And safe in Cujoe's hut the Christian lay.
| Humanity, or the rights of nature, a poem | |