spot;—­
    The suffering of a captive’s lot;
    My Georgian mother’s daring flight;
    The day’s concealment, march by night;
    Her death, when, touching Christian ground,
    They deem’d repose and safety found: 
    How, on his arm, by night and day,
    I, then a happy infant, lay,
    And taught him not to mourn, but pray. 
    How, when, at length, he reach’d his home,
    His heart foretold a gentle doom;
    With tears of fondness in his eyes,
    Hoping to cause a glad surprize;
    Full of submission, pondering o’er
    What he too lightly priz’d before;
    The curse with tenfold vengeance fell.—­
    Those who had lov’d him once so well,
    In whose indulgence perfect trust
    Had still been wise, though most unjust,
    Were in the grave!—­Their hearts were cold! 
    His penitence might still be told—­
    Told to the winds! for few would hear,
    Or, hearing, deem that tale sincere
    His patrimony’s lord denied,
    Who, hardening in possession’s pride,
    Affirm’d the rightful owner died.

      “A victim from devouring strife,
    And slavery, return’d with life;
    Possessions, honours, parents gone,
    The very hand that urg’d him on,
    Now, by its stern repelling, tore
    The veil that former falsehood wore!

    “When he first bar’d his heart before thy view,
    Told all its inmost beatings—­told them true;
    Nay, e’en the pulse, the secret, trembling thrill,
    On which the slightest touch alone would trill [Errata:  kill];
    While thou, with secret aim, collected art,
    Didst wind around that bold, confiding heart,
    And, in its warm and healthful breathings fling
    A subtle poison, and a deadly sting!

    “Where shall we else so fell a traitor find? 
    The wilful, hard misleader of the blind
    And what can be the soul-perverter’s meed,
    Plotting to lure his friend to such a deed,
    As made self-hatred on the conscience lay
    That heavy weight she never moves away? 
    O! where the good man’s inner barriers close
    ’Gainst the world’s cruel judgments, and his foes
    Enfolding truth, and prayer, and soul’s repose,
    Thine is a mournful numbness, or a din,
    For many strong accusers lurk within!

    “And, since this fatal period, in thine eyes
    A shrewd and unrelaxing witness lies;
    While, on the specious language of the tongue,
    Deceit has hateful, warning accents hung;
    And outrag’d nature, struggling with a smile,
    Announces nought but discontent and guile;
    Each trace of fair, auspicious meaning flown,
    All that makes man by man belov’d and known. 
    Silence, indignant thought! forego thy sway! 
    Silence! and let me measure on my way!