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Rh And, swathed in saturated raiment, march'd On, till hot air hath drain'd their moisture dry; Then, for how many torturing nights and days Have I lain in the gripe of dire disease, Clinging inveterate to devour my life; Evil inharmonious monsters ravening Around these hells of my delirium! When poor dark savage brothers tended me With a white wife's untiring tenderness. Some hearts, in sooth, of those my followers, Quailing before long toil herculean, Weary of peril in the very air We breathe, a Protean never-sleeping peril, Often immeasurable, unforeknown, Shrank from my side; yea, even some of whom I had hoped better things—but some, alas! Were weak and worthless instruments, that break In hands of whoso trusts in a fair show: And some were agents of the slave-trader, Sworn to oppose, and drive me to despair.