That charm whose virtue warms the world beside, Was by these tyrants to our use denied. While yet they deigned that healthsome balm to lade, The putrid water felt its powerful aid; But when refused, to aggravate our pains, Then fevers raged and revelled through our veins; Throughout my frame I felt its deadly heat; I felt my pulse with quicker motions beat; A pallid hue o’er every face was spread, Unusual pains attacked the fainting head: No physic here, no doctor to assist, With oaths they placed me on the sick man’s list: Twelve wretches more the same dark symptoms took, And these were entered on the doctor’s book. The loathsome Hunter was our destined place, The Hunter, to all hospitals disgrace. With soldiers sent to guard us on the road, Joyful we left the Scorpion’s dire abode: Some tears we shed for the remaining crew, Then cursed the hulk, and from her sides withdrew. THE HOSPITAL PRISON SHIP Now towards the Hunter’s gloomy decks we came, A slaughter house, yet hospital in name; For none came there till ruined with their fees, And half consumed, and dying of disease:-- But when too near, with laboring oar, we plied, The Mate, with curses, drove us from the side:-- That wretch, who banished from the navy crew, Grown old in blood did here his trade renew. His rancorous tongue, when on his charge let loose, Uttered reproaches, scandal, and abuse; Gave all to hell who dared his king disown, And swore mankind were made for George alone. A thousand times, to irritate our woe, He wished us foundered in the gulph below: A thousand times he brandished high his stick, And swore as often, that we were not sick:-- And yet so pale! that we were thought by some A freight of ghosts from Death’s dominions come. But, calmed at length, for who can always rage? Or the fierce war of boundless passion wage? He pointed to the stairs that led below To damps, disease, and varied forms of woe:-- Down to the gloom I took my pensive way, Along the decks the dying captives lay, Some struck with madness, some with scurvy pained, But still of putrid fevers most complained. On the hard floors the wasted objects laid There tossed and tumbled in the dismal shade: There no soft voice their bitter fate bemoaned, But Death strode stately, while his victims groaned. Of leaky decks I heard them long complain, Drowned as they were in deluges of rain: Denied the comforts of a dying bed, And not a pillow to support the head: How could they else but pine, and grieve and sigh, Detest a wretched life, and wish to die?