Cool'd by no breeze on Hudson's mountain-stream; That not unsung these threescore days shall fall To black oblivion that would cover all!-- No masts or sails these crowded ships adorn, Dismal to view, neglected and forlorn! Here, mighty ills oppress the imprison'd throng, Dull were our slumbers, and our nights too long-- From morn to eve along the decks we lay Scorch'd into fevers by the solar ray; No friendly awning cast a welcome shade, Once was it promis'd, and was never made; No favours could these sons of death bestow, 'Twas endless cursing, and continual woe: Immortal hatred doth their breasts engage, And this lost empire swells their souls with rage. Two hulks on Hudson's stormy bosom lie, Two, farther south, affront the pitying eye-- There, the black _Scorpion_ at her mooring rides, There, _Strombolo_ swings, yielding to the tides; Here, bulky _Jersey_ fills a larger space, And _Hunter_, to all hospitals disgrace-- Thou, _Scorpion_, fatal to thy crowded throng, Dire theme of horror and Plutonian song, Requir'st my lay--thy sultry decks I know, And all the torments that exist below! The briny wave that Hudson's bosom fills Drain'd through her bottom in a thousand rills, Rotten and old, replete with sighs and groans, Scarce on the waters she sustain'd her bones; Here, doom'd to toil, or founder in the tide, At the moist pumps incessantly we ply'd,[28] Here, doom'd to starve, like famish'd dogs we tore The scant allowance, that our tyrants bore. Remembrance shudders at this scene of fears-- Still in my view some English brute appears, Some base-born Hessian slave walks threat'ning by, Some servile Scot with murder in his eye Still haunts my sight, as vainly they bemoan Rebellions manag'd so unlike their own! O may I never feel the poignant pain To live subjected to such fiends again, Stewards and Mates that hostile Britain bore, Cut from the gallows on their native shore;[29] Their ghastly looks and vengeance-beaming eyes Still to my view in dismal colours rise-- O may I ne'er review these dire abodes, These piles for slaughter, floating on the floods,-- And you, that o'er the troubled ocean go, Strike not your standards to this miscreant foe, Better the greedy wave should swallow all, Better to meet the death-conducted ball, Better to sleep on ocean's deepest bed, At once destroy'd and number'd with the dead, Than thus to perish in the face of day Where twice ten thousand deaths one death delay. When to the ocean dives the western sun, And the scorch'd Tories fire their evening gun, "Down, rebels, down!" the angry Scotchmen cry, "Damn'd dogs, descend, or by our broad swords die!" Hail, dark abode! what can with thee compare-- Heat, sickness, famine, death, and stagnant air-- Pandora's box, from whence all mischief flew, Here real found, torments mankind anew!--