Her vital blood, that pour'd from every vein, So late, to fill the accursed Westphalian drain, Then ceased to flow; the vulture now no more With unrelenting rage her bowels tore. 130 His magic rod transforms the bird of prey! The millstone feels the touch, and melts away! And, strange to tell, still stranger to believe, What eyes ne'er saw, and heart could ne'er conceive, At once, transplanted by the sorcerer's wand, Columbian hills in distant Austria stand! America, with pangs before unknown, Now with Westphalia utters groan for groan: By sympathy she fevers with her fires, Burns as she burns, and as she dies expires. 140 From maxims long adopted thus he flew, For ever changing, yet for ever true: Swoln with success, and with applause imflamed, He scorn'd all caution, all advice disclaim'd: Arm'd with war's thunder, he embraced no more Those patriot principles maintain'd before. Perverse, inconstant, obstinate, and proud, Drunk with ambition, turbulent and loud, He wrecks us headlong on that dreadful strand He once devoted all his powers to brand! 150 Our hapless country views with weeping eyes, On every side, o'erwhelming horrors rise; Drain'd of her wealth, exhausted of her power, And agonized as in the mortal hour; Her armies, wasted with incessant toils, Or doom'd to perish in contagious soils, To guard some needy royal plunderer's throne, And sent to fall in battles not their own. The enormous debt at home, though long o'ercharged, With grievous burdens annually enlarged: 160 Crush'd with increasing taxes to the ground, That suck, like vampires, every bleeding wound: Ground with severe distress the industrious poor Driven by the ruthless landlord to the door. While thus our land her hapless fate bemoans In secret, and with inward sorrow groans; Though deck'd with tinsel trophies of renown, All gash'd with sores, with anguish bending down; Can yet some impious parricide appear, Who strives to make this anguish more severe? 170 Can one exist, so much his country's foe, To bid her wounds with fresh effusion flow? There can; to him in vain she lifts her eyes, His soul relentless hears her piercing sighs! Shameless of front, impatient of control, He spurs her onward to destruction's goal! Nor yet content on curst Westphalia's shore With mad profusion to exhaust her store, Still peace his pompous fulminations brand, As pirates tremble at the sight of land: 180 Still to new wars the public eye he turns, Defies all peril, and at reason spurns; Till press'd with danger, by distress assail'd, That baffled courage, and o'er skill prevail'd; Till foundering in the storm himself had brew'd, He strives at last its horrors to elude. Some wretched shift must still protect his name, And to the guiltless head transfer his shame: