'Ye generous bands, behold the task-to save
Or yield whole nations to an instant grave.
Rise then to war! to timely vengeance rise!
Ere the grey sire, the helpless infant dies:
Look thro' the world, see endless years descend;
What realms, what ages, on your arms depend!
Reverse the fate, avenge the insulted sky;
Move to the work: we conquer or we die!'"

British cruelty to American prisoners. Prison-ship. Story of LUCINDA.

"But of all tales that war's black annals hold,

The darkest, foulest, still remains untold;
New modes of torture wait the shameful strife,
And Britain wantons in the waste of life.

Cold-blooded CRUELTY! first fiend of hell!
Ah! think no more with savage hordes to dwell:
Quit the Caribbean tribes who eat their slain,
Fly that grim gang, the inquisitors of Spain,
Boast not thy deeds in Moloch's shrines of old,
Leave Barbary's pirates to their blood-bought gold,
Let Holland steal her victims, force them o'er
To toils and death on Java's morbid shore;
Some cloak, some color, all these crimes may plead-
'Tis avarice, passion, blind religion's deed;
But Britons here, in this fraternal broil,
Grave, cool, deliberate, in thy service toil.

Come then, curs'd goddess, where thy votaries reign;
Inhale their incense from the land and main:

Come to New York, their conquering arms to greet,
Brood o'er their camp, and breathe along their fleet,
See the black PRISON-SHIP'S expanding womb
Impested thousands, quick and dead, entomb.

Bark after bark the captured seamen bear,
Transboard and lodge thy silent victims there:
A hundred scows, from all the neighbouring shore,
Spread the dull sail and ply the constant oar,
Waft wrecks of armies from the well-fought field,
And famish'd garrisons who bravely yield:
They mount the hulk, and, cramm'd within the cave,
Hail their last house-their living, floating grave.

She comes, the fiend! her grinning jaws expand,
Her brazen eyes cast lightning o'er the strand,
Her wings like thunder-clouds the welkin sweep,
Brush the tall spires and shade the shuddering deep;
She gains the deck, displays her wonted store,
Her cords and scourges wet with prisoners' gore;
Gripes, pincers, thumbscrews spread beneath her

feet,

Slow poisonous drugs and loads of putrid meat;
Disease hangs drizzling from her slimy locks,
And hot contagion issues from her box.

O'er the closed hatches ere she takes her place,
She moves the massy planks a little space,
Opes a small passage to the cries below,
That feast her soul on messages of woe;
There sits with gaping ear and changeless eye,
Drinks every groan and treasures every sigh;
Sustains the faint, their miseries to prolong,
Revives the dying and unnerves the strong.

But as the infected mass resign their breath,
She keeps with joy the register of death.

As toss'd thro' port-holes from the encumber'd cave, Corpse after corpse fall dashing in the waveCorpse after corpse, for days and months and years, The tide bears off, and still its current clears;