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Thou then art come to Albion's sea-girt short,
Silence ! stern God, to whom of yore

The swart Egyptian bow'd the knee !
Thou then art come! but now no more
A boy, and gentle as before,

Whose lip-laid finger motions quietness ;

But with the dungeon key, And lifting in thine hand the iron rod, To Albion thou art come, Silence! tremendous God,

Demon of sullen brow,

No child of Isis thou;
No God infus'd thy being, dreadful power!
Thee to Oppression Terror bore.

When on the shuddering maid

His grasp the Tyrant laid, All

agony she felt his brute embrace.

And when the tedious term was gone
Mid many a pang


many a groan, When thou wert born, the offspring of disgrace,

She cast a loathing look upon
Child of no mother's joy.

her boy,

Is there a voice that dares profane
The stillness of thy reign?
Lo! where, built by British hands,
Dreadful Power, thy temple stands !
There where the damp surrounding stone
Echoes sick Misery's groan ;
There where no voice of friendship may intrude
On the long solitude;
There shall he lie who dares profane
The stillness of thy reign.

But what on earth endures for ever?

Not the holy pile of Laws
That Liberty, with long endeavour,

Rais'd to be the world's applause !
Not thy Gallic temple stood
Where the damp surrounding stone
Echo'd sick Misery's groan,

Where never voice of friendship could intrude
On the long solitude.
Not always in Dalilah's lap reclin'd

Did Sampson let his crafty foes
Around his sleeping limbs their fetters bind :

He felt, he woke, he rose;

Who then could save The fierce Philistines from their waken'd slave?

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A Hunting party once there met
(A strange and heterogeneous set,)

So mix'd a group was never seen before :
The day was hot, they made good cheer,
And should my reader ask me where,

I'll say on the Musquito shore.


The dinner o'er, the wines abound,
And many a bottle quick went round,

And many a merry tale was told:
At length the subject graver grown,
And taking quite a different tone,

On ancient metaphysics rollid.


A learned traveller took the lead,
A Doctor who had fill'd his head

With maxims most heroic ;
He swore that what the world call'd pain
Was but a phantom of the brain,

And never yet was felt by Stoic.


And added, I am ready, since
My arguments will not convince,

An hour in yonder swamp to lie;
Stript naked there I'll bear the sting
Of every insect you can bring,

Both those that crawl, and those that fly,


Each one was anxious when he heard
This speech, to take him at his word ;

And ’mongst them all it made a bustle : And now a rump and dozen is the bet Which he must forfeit to this merry set

Should he but speak or move a muscle.

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