On board one only of these Prison ships above 11,000 of our
brave countrymen are said to have perished. She was called the
Jersey. Her wreck still remains, and at low ebb, presents to the world
its accursed and blighted fragments. Twice in twenty-four hours the
winds of Heaven sigh through it, and repeat the groans of our expiring
countrymen; and twice the ocean hides in her bosom those deadly and
polluted ruins, which all her waters cannot purify. Every rain that
descends washes from the unconsecrated bank the bones of those
intrepid sufferers. They lie, naked on the shore, accusing the
neglect of their countrymen. How long shall gratitude, and even piety
deny them burial? They ought to be collected in one vast ossory, which
shall stand a monument to future ages, of the two extremes of human
character: of that depravity which, trampling on the rights of
misfortune, perpetrated cold and calculating murder on a wretched and
defenceless prisoner; and that virtue which animated this prisoner to
die a willing martyr to his country. Or rather, were it possible,
there ought to be raised a Colossal Column whose base sinking to Hell,
should let the murderers read their infamy inscribed upon it; and
whose capital of Corinthian laurel ascending to Heaven, should show
the sainted Patriots that they have triumphed.
"Deep and dreadful as the coloring of this picture may appear, it is
but a taint and imperfect sketch of the original.
Pages:
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276