Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! / Confusion on thy banners wait; / Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing, / They mock the air with idle state.
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,/ The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, / The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, / No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
The applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight. Thomas Gra