"Look to the East, [18] where Ganges' swarthy race Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base; Lo! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, And glares the Nemesis of native dead; Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood, And claims his long arrear of northern blood. So may ye perish!--Pallas, when she gave Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. "Look on your Spain!--she clasps the hand she hates, But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates. 230 Bear witness, bright Barossa! [19] thou canst tell Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell. But Lusitania, kind and dear ally, Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly. Oh glorious field! by Famine fiercely won, The Gaul retires for once, and all is done! But when did Pallas teach, that one retreat Retrieved three long Olympiads of defeat? "Look last at home--ye love not to look there On the grim smile of comfortless despair: 240 Your city saddens: loud though Revel howls, Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine prowls. See all alike of more or less bereft; No misers tremble when there's nothing left. 'Blest paper credit;' [20] who shall dare to sing? It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. Yet Pallas pluck'd each Premier by the ear, Who Gods and men alike disdained to hear; But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state, On Pallas calls,--but calls, alas! too late: 250 Then raves for'----'; to that Mentor bends, Though he and Pallas never yet were friends. Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard, Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. So, once of yore, each reasonable frog, Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign 'log.' Thus hailed your rulers their patrician clod, As Egypt chose an onion [21] for a God. "Now fare ye well! enjoy your little hour; Go, grasp the shadow of your vanished power; 260 Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme; Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a dream. Gone is that Gold, the marvel of mankind. And Pirates barter all that's left behind. [22] No more the hirelings, purchased near and far, Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war. The idle merchant on the useless quay Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away; Or, back returning, sees rejected stores Rot piecemeal on his own encumbered shores: 270 The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom, And desperate mans him 'gainst the coming doom. Then in the Senates of your sinking state Show me the man whose counsels may have weight. Vain is each voice where tones could once command; E'en factions cease to charm a factious land: Yet jarring sects convulse a sister Isle, And light with maddening hands the mutual pile.