Classic Poem

Luco is borne around the neighb'ring isles,
Losing the knowledge of his native shore
Amid the pathless wave, destined to plant
The sweet luxuriant cane. He strives to please,
Nor once complains, but greatly smothers grief.
His hands are blistered, and his feet are worn,
Till ev'ry stroke dealt by his mattock gives
Keen agony to life; while from his breast
The sigh arises, burdened with the name
Of Incilanda. Time inures the youth,
His limbs grow nervous, strained by willing toil;
And resignation, or a calm despair
(Most useful either) lulls him to repose.
A Christian renegade—that from his soul
Abjures the tenets of our schools, nor dreads
A future punishment, nor hopes for mercy—
Had fled from England to avoid those laws
Which must have made his life a retribution
To violated justice, and had gained,
By fawning guile, the confidence (ill-placed)
Of Luco's master. O'er the slave he stands
With knotted whip, lest fainting nature shun
The task too arduous, while his cruel soul
Unnat'ral, ever feeds with gross delight
Upon his suff'rings. Many slaves there were,
But none who could suppress the sigh, and bend
So quietly as Luco. Long he bore
The stripes that from his manly bosom drew
The sanguine stream (too little prized). At length
Hope fled his soul, giving her struggles o'er,
And he resolved to die. The sun had reached
His zenith; pausing faintly, Luco stood
Leaning upon his hoe, while mem'ry brought,
In piteous imag'ry, his aged father,
His poor fond mother, and his faithful maid.
The mental group in wildest motion set
Fruitless imagination: fury, grief,
Alternate shame, the sense of insult—all
Conspire to aid the inward storm. Yet words
Were no relief, he stood in silent woe.
Gorgon, remorseless Christian, saw the slave
Stand musing mid the ranks and, stealing soft
Behind the studious Luco, struck his cheek
With a too-heavy whip that reached his eye,
Making it dark for ever. Luco turned
In strongest agony, and with his hoe
Struck the rude Christian on the forehead. Pride,
With hateful malice, seize on Gorgon's soul,
By nature fierce; while Luco sought the beach
And plunged beneath the wave. But near him lay
A planter's barge, whose seamen grasped his hair,
Dragging to life a wretch who wished to die.
Rumour now spreads the tale, while Gorgon's breath
Envenomed, aids her blast: imputed crimes
Oppose the plea of Luco, till he scorns
Even a just defence and stands prepared.
The planters, conscious that to fear alone
They owe their cruel pow'r, resolve to blend
New torment with the pangs of death, and hold
Their victims high in dreadful view, to fright
The wretched number left. Luco is chained
To a huge tree, his fellow slaves are ranged
To share the horrid sight. Fuel is placed
In an increasing train some paces back
To kindle slowly, and approach the youth
With more than native terror. See, it burns!
He gazes on the growing flame, and calls
For ‘water, water!’ The small boon's denied.
E'en Christians throng each other to behold
The different alterations of his face
As the hot death approaches. (Oh shame, shame
Upon the followers of Jesus! Shame
On him that dares avow a God!) He writhes,
While down his breast glide the unpitied tears,
And in their sockets strain their scorched balls.
‘Burn, burn me quick! I cannot die!’ he cries,
‘Bring fire more close!’ The planters heed him not,
But still prolonging Luco's torture, threat
Their trembling slaves around. His lips are dry,
His senses seem to quiver ere they quit
His frame for ever, rallying strong, then driv'n
From the tremendous conflict.
Sight no more
Is Luco's, his parched tongue is ever mute.
Yet in his soul his Incilanda stays
Till both escape together. Turn, my muse,
From this sad scene; lead Bristol's milder soul
To where the solitary spirit roves
Wrapped in the robe of innocence, to shades
Where pity breathing in the gale dissolves
The mind, when fancy paints such real woe.