The Dying Soliloquy of the Victim of the Wilkesbarre Tragedy.
Reading edition
He was approached from behind by Deputy Marshal Wyncoop and his assistants, knocked down with a mace and partially shackled. The fugitive, who had unsuspectingly waited upon them during their breakfast at the Phenix Hotel, was a tall, noble-looking, remarkably intelligent, and a nearly white mulatto; after a desperate effort and severe struggle, he shook off his five assailants, and with the loss of everything but a remnant of his shirt, rushed from the house and plunged into the water, exclaiming: "I will drown rather than be taken alive." He was pursued and fired upon several times, the last ball taking effect in his head, his face being instantly covered with blood. He sprang up and shrieked in great agony, and no doubt would have sunk at once, but for the buoyancy of the water. Seeing his condition, the slave-catchers retreated, coolly remarking that "dead niggers were not worth taking South."
Than be a slave, Dread death I'll brave, And hail the moment near, When the soul mid pain, Shall burst the chain That long has bound it here. Earth's thrilling pulse, Man's stern repulse, This weary heart no longer feels; Its beating hushed Its vain hopes crushed, It craves that life which death reveals. That moment great My soul would wait, In awe and peace sublime; Nor bitter tears, Nor slave-born fears, As I pass from earth to time. The angry past, Like phantoms vast, Glides by like the rushing wave; So soon shall I, Forgotten lie, In the depths of my briny grave. The time shall be, "When no more sea" Shall hide its treasures lone; Then my soul shall rise, Clothed for the skies, To find its blissful home. Foul deeds laid wrong The whip and thong, Have scored my manhood's heart, But ne'er again Shall fiends constrain My body to the slave's vile mart. The 'whelming wave, This corpse shall lave; Let the winds still pipe aloud, Let the waters lash, The white foam dash, O'er mangled brow and bloody shroud. Roll on, thou free, Unfettered sea, Thy restless moan, my dirge, My cradle deep In my last lone sleep, Is the scoop of thy hollow surge. Would I might live, One glance to give, To those whose hearts would bless, Each word of love, All price above, As mine to theirs I press. The wish is vain; My frenzied brain, Is dark'ning even now; Above, above, Is Heaven's love, And mercy's wide arched bow. Glad free-born soul With grateful hold, Now grasp the gift from Heav'n— Thy freedom won, New life begun, Forgive, thou'rt there forgiv'n.
(signature) H. H. Greenough
