When to your arms these fatal islands fall--
For first or last, they must be conquered, all,
Americans! to rites sepulchral just
With gentlest footstep press this kindred dust,
And o'er the tombs, if tombs can then be found,
Place the green turf, and plant the myrtle round
This poem was written in 1780, the year that Freneau was captured. He
was on board the Scorpion and Hunter about two months, and was then
exchanged. We fear that he has not in the least exaggerated the
horrors of his situation. In fact there seem to have been many bloody
pages torn from the book of history, that can never be perused. Many
dark deeds were done in these foul prisons, of which we can only give
hints, and the details of many crimes committed against the helpless
prisoners are left to our imaginations. But enough and more than
enough is known to make us fear that _inhumanity_, a species of
cruelty unknown to the lower animals, is really one of the most
prominent characteristics of men. History is a long and bloody record
of battles, massacres, torture chambers; greed and violence; bigotry
and sin. The root of all crimes is selfishness. What we call
inhumanity is we fear not _inhuman_, but _human nature unrestrained_.
It is true that some progress is made, and it is no longer the custom
to kill all captives, at least not in civilized countries.
Pages:
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267