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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?

Scarce had I mingled with this wretched band,
When a thin victim seized me by the hand:–
“And art thou come?”–death heavy on his eyes–
“And art thou come to these abodes?” he cries,
“Why didst thou leave the Scorpion’s dark retreat?
And hither haste, a surer death to meet?
Why didst thou leave thy damp, infected cell?
If that was purgatory, this is hell.
We too, grown weary of that horrid shade,
Petitioned early for the Doctor’s aid;
His aid denied, more deadly symptoms came,
Weak and yet weaker, glowed the vital flame;
And when disease had worn us down so low
That few could tell if we were ghosts or no,
And all asserted death would be our fate,
Then to the Doctor we were sent, too late”

Ah! rest in peace, each injured, parted shade,
By cruel hands in death’s dark weeds arrayed,
The days to come shall to your memory raise
Piles on these shores, to spread through earth your praise.

THE HESSIAN DOCTOR

From Brooklyn heights a Hessian doctor came,
Nor great his skill, nor greater much his fame:
Fair Science never called the wretch her son,
And Art disdained the stupid man to own.

He on his charge the healing work begun
With antmomial mixtures by the tun:
Ten minutes was the time he deigned to stay,
The time of grace allotted once a day:
He drenched us well with bitter draughts, tis true,
Nostrums from hell, and cortex from Peru:
Some with his pills he sent to Pluto’s reign,
And some he blistered with his flies of Spain.
His Tartar doses walked their deadly round,
Till the lean patient at the potion frowned,
And swore that hemlock, death, or what you will,
Were nonsense to the drugs that stuffed his bill.
On those refusing he bestowed a kick,
Or menaced vengeance with his walking stick:
Here uncontrolled he exercised his trade,
And grew experienced by the deaths he made.