Sonnet: On The Death Of Toussaint L'Ouverture Poem by Thomas Gent

His weary warfare done, his woes forgot,
Freedom! thy son, oppress'd so long, is free:
He seeks the realms where tyranny is not,
And those shall hail him who have died for thee!
Immortal TELL! receive a soul like thine,
Who scorn'd obedience to usurp'd command:
Who rose a giant from a sphere indign,
To tear the rod from proud oppression's hand.
Alas! no victor-wreaths enzon'd his brow,
But freedom long his hapless fate shall mourn;
Her holy tears shall nurse the laurel bough,
Whose green leaves grace his consecrated urn.
Nurs'd by these tears, that bough shall rise sublime,
And bloom triumphant 'mid the wrecks of time!