Deny’d the easy privilege of death?
The branded slave, that tugs the weary oar,
Obtains the sabbath of a welcome shore.
His ransom’d stripes are heal’d; his native soil
Sweetens the mem’ry of his foreign toil:
But ah! my sorrows are not half so blest;
My labour finds no point, my pains no rest.
* * * * * *
Thou just observer of our flying hours,
That with thy adamantine fangs, devours