Or wanton cruelty, inflicts a blow,
Not daring to look angry at the whip,
Oh! see him meekly clasp his hands and bow
To every stroke: no lurid deathful scene
In Battle's rage, so racks the feeling heart;
Not all the thunders of infuriate War,
Disploding mines, and crafting, bursting bombs,
Are half so horrid as the sounding lash
That echoes through the Carribean groves.
Incessant is the War of Human Wit,