From every mouth some doleful tale I hear! Some mourn a father, brother, husband, friend: Some mourn, imprisoned in their native land, In sickly ships what numerous hosts confin'd At once their lives and liberties resigned: In dreary dungeons woeful scenes have passed, Long in the historian's page the tale will last, As long as spring renews the flowery wood, As long as breezes curl the yielding flood!-- Some sent to India's sickly climes afar, To dig, with slaves, for buried diamonds there, There left to sicken in a land of woe Where o'er scorched hills infernal breezes blow, Whose every blast some dire contagion brings, Fevers or death on its destructive wings, 'Till fate relenting, its last arrows drew, Brought death to them, and infamy to you. Pests of mankind! remembrance shall recall And paint these horrors to the view of all; Heaven has not turned to its own works a foe Nor left to monsters these fair realms below, Else had your arms more wasteful vengeance spread, And these gay plains been dyed a deeper red. O'er Britain's isle a thousand woes impend, Too weak to conquer, govern, or defend, To liberty she holds pretended claim-- The substance we enjoy, and they the name; Her prince, surrounded by a host of slaves, Still claims dominion o'er the vagrant waves: Such be his claims o'er all the world beside,-- An empty nothing--madness, rage and pride. From Europe's realms fair freedom has retired, And even in Britain has the spark expired-- Sigh for the change your haughty empire feels, Sigh for the doom that no disguise conceals! Freedom no more shall Albion's cliffs survey; Corruption there has centered all her sway, Freedom disdains her honest head to rear, Or herd with nobles, kings, or princes there;[164] She shuns their gilded spires and domes of state, Resolved, O Virtue, at thy shrine to wait; 'Midst savage woods and wilds she dares to stray, And bids uncultured nature bloom more gay. She is that glorious and immortal sun, Without whose ray this world would be undone, A mere dull chaos, sunk in deepest night, An abject something, void of form and light, Of reptiles, worst in rank, the dire abode, Perpetual mischief, and the dragon's brood. Let Turks and Russians glut their fields with blood, Again let Britain dye the Atlantic flood, Let all the east adore the sanguine wreathe And gain new glories from the trade of death-- America! the works of peace be thine, Thus shalt thou gain a triumph more divine-- To thee belongs a second golden reign, Thine is the empire o'er a peaceful main; Protect the rights of human kind below, Crush the proud tyrant who becomes their foe, And future times shall own your struggles blest, And future years enjoy perpetual rest. Americans! revenge your country's wrongs; To you the honour of this deed belongs, Your arms did once this sinking land sustain,