Herod, Domitian--these in judgment rise, And, envious of his deeds, I hear them say None but a George could be more vile than they. Swoln though he was with wealth, revenge, and pride, How could he dream that heaven was on his side-- Did he not see, when so decreed by fate, They placed the crown upon his royal pate, Did he not see the richest jewel fall--[B] Dire was the omen, and astonished all.-- That gem no more shall brighten and adorn; No more that gem by British kings be worn, Or swell to wonted heights of fair renown The fading glories of their boasted crown. Yet he to arms, and war, and blood inclined, (A fair-day warrior with a feeble mind, Fearless, while others meet the shock of fate, And dare that death, which clips his thread too late.) He to the fane (O hypocrite!) did go, While not an angel there but was his foe, There did he kneel, and sigh, and sob, and pray, Yet not to lave his thousand sins away, Far other motives swayed his spotted soul; 'Twas not for those the secret sorrow stole Down his pale cheek--'twas vengeance and despair Dissolved his eye, and planted sorrow there;-- How could he hope to bribe the impartial sky By his base prayers, and mean hypocrisy?-- Heaven still is just, and still abhors all crimes, Not acts like George, the Nero of our times. What were his prayers--his prayers could be no more Than a thief's wishes to recruit his store:-- Such prayers could never reach the worlds above; They were but curses in the ear of Jove;-- You prayed that conquest might your arms attend, And crush that freedom virtue did defend, That the fierce Indian, rousing from his rest, Might these new regions with his flames invest, With scalps and tortures aggravate our woe, And to the infernal world dismiss your foe. No mines of gold our fertile country yields, But mighty harvests crown the loaded fields, Hence, trading far, we gained the golden prize, Which, though our own, bewitched their greedy eyes-- For that they ravaged India's climes before, And carried death to Asia's utmost shore-- Clive was your envied slave, in avarice bold-- He mowed down nations for his dearer gold; The fatal gold could give no true content, He mourned his murders, and to Tophet went. Led on by lust of lucre and renown, Burgoyne came marching with his thousands down, High were his thoughts, and furious his career, Puffed with self-confidence, and pride severe, Swoln with the idea of his future deeds, Onward to ruin each advantage leads: Before his hosts his heaviest curses flew, And conquered worlds rose hourly to his view: His wrath, like Jove's, could bear with no controul, His words bespoke the mischief in his soul; To fight was not this general's only trade, He shined in writing, and his wit displayed-- To awe the more with titles of command He told of forts he ruled in Scottish land;--