E UROPEAN vain-mock not my hue,
Nor ridicule a slave;
Death soon, like me, will blacken you,
In darkness, and the grave.

Tho ' nature o'er my swarthy skin
Diffus'd a sable blot;
Yet was my mind unstain'd within,
And free from vicious spot.

I T boots not here, or black, or white,
All colours suit the tomb;
Black guests, and Æthiopian night,
Sit round this funeral room.

R ELEAS'D from servitude, and woe,
Here all my toils are o'er,
To some green island I shall go,
And see my native shore.

Tho ' with reluctant mind I part,
From my kind master here;
Yet my old country has my heart,
And liberty is dear.

T HERE in some shady, Indian grove,
I shall forever stray;
Or o'er the pathless mountain rove,
And hunt for savage prey.

I T matters not, or rich, or poor,
But 'tis the honest man;
Whether he lives on India 's shore
In Europe , or Japan .

L IVE well — nor tremble at the grave,
The good shall live again;
The wicked man's the truest slave,
And death a tyrant then.