Sonnet. On The Death Of Toussaint L'Ouverture.
By Thomas Gent
His weary warfare done, his woes forgot,
Freedom! thy son, oppress'd so long, is free:
He seeks the realms where tyranny is not,
And those shall hail him who have died for thee!
Immortal TELL! receive a soul like thine,
Who scorn'd obedience to usurp'd command:
Who rose a giant from a sphere indign,
To tear the rod from proud oppression's hand.
Alas! no victor-wreaths enzon'd his brow,
But freedom long his hapless fate shall mourn;
Her holy tears shall nurse the laurel-bough,
Whose green leaves grace his consecrated urn.
Nursed by these tears, that bough shall rise sublime,
And bloom triumphant 'mid the wrecks of time!