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.

 Anon we travel