Starts, with a bursting heart, for ever more

To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore!

The shrill horn blew;* at that alarum knell
His guardian angel took a last farewell!
That funeral dirge to darkness hath resign'd
The fiery grandeur of a generous mind!

Poor fetter'd man! I hear thee whispering low
Unhallow'd vows to Guilt, the child of Woe!
Friendless thy heart; and, canst thou harbour there
A wish but death-a passion but despair?

The widow'd Indian, when her lord expires, Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral fires!

So falls the heart at Thraldom's bitter sigh!

So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty!

But not to Lybia's barren climes alone, To Chili, or the wild Siberian zone,

Belong the wretched heart and haggard eye,

Degraded worth, and poor misfortune's sigh!— Ye orient realms, where Ganges' waters run! Prolific fields! dominions of the sun!

How long your tribes have trembled, and obey'd! How long was Timur's iron sceptre sway'd!' Whose marshall'd hosts, the lions of the plain, From Scythia's northern mountains to the main, Rag'd o'er your plunder'd shrines and altars bare, With blazing torch and gory scymitar,—

Stunn'd with the cries of death each gentle gale, And bath'd in blood the verdure of the vale! Yet could no pangs th' immortal spirit tame, When Brama's children perish'd for his name;

The martyr smil'd beneath avenging pow'r,

And brav'd the tyrant in his torturing hour!

When Europe sought your subject realms to gain, And stretch'd her giant sceptre o'er the main,

Taught her proud barks their winding way to shape,
And brav'd the stormy spirit of the Cape;"
Children of Brama! then was mercy nigh

To wash the stain of blood's eternal dye?

Did Peace descend, to triumph and to save,
When free born Britons cross'd the Indian wave?

Ah, no!-to more than Rome's ambition true,
The Nurse of Freedom gave it not to you!
She the bold route of Europe's guilt began,
And in the march of nations, led the van!

Rich in the gems of India's gaudy zone,

And plunder pil'd from kingdoms not their own,
Degenerate Trade! thy minions could despise

The heart-born anguish of a thousand cries;

Could lock, with impious hands, their teeming store,
While famish'd nations died along the shore;"
Could mock the groans of fellow-men, and bear
The curse of kingdoms peopled with despair;
Could stamp disgrace on man's polluted name,
And barter, with their gold, eternal shame!

But, hark! as bow'd to earth the Bramin kneels, From heav'nly climes propitious thunder peals!

Of India's fate her guardian spirits tell,

Prophetic murmurs breathing on the shell,

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And solemn sounds, that awe the list'ning mind,
Roll on the azure paths of ev'ry wind.

66

Foes of mankind! (her guardian spirits say) Revolving ages bring the bitter day,

When Heav'n's unerring arm shall fall on you,
And blood for blood these Indian plains bedew;
Nine times have Brama's wheels of lightning hurl'd
His awful presence o'er the alarmed world;

Nine times hath Guilt, through all his giant frame,
Convulsive trembled as the Mighty came;

Nine times hath suffering Mercy spar'd in vain-°
But Heav'n shall burst her starry gates again!

He comes! dread Brama shakes the sunless sky
With murmuring wrath, and thunders from on high!