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Of lofty boastful look and pompous shew,
Triumphant tyrants o'er the weak and low:
Yet wildly starting from the gaming board
At every distant brandish of the sword;
Already conquer'd by uncertain dread,
Imploring peace with feeble hands outspread;—
Such peace as trembling suppliants still obtain,
Such peace they found beneath the yoke of Spain;
And the wide empires of the East no more
Poured their redundant horns on Lisboa's shore.
Alas, my Friend, how vain the fairest boast
Of human pride! how soon is Empire lost!
The pile by ages rear'd to awe the world,
By one degenerate race to ruin hurl'd!
And shall the Briton view that downward race
With eye unmoved, and no sad likeness trace!
Ah heaven! in every scene, by memory brought,
My fading country rushes on my thought.
