Pitt

Not always should the Tear's ambrosial dew

       &nbspRoll its soft anguish down thy furrow'd cheek!

       &nbspNot always heaven-breath'd tones of Suppliance meek

Beseem thee, Mercy! Yon dark Scowler view,

Who with proud words of dear-lov'd Freedom came—

       &nbspMore blasting than the mildew from the South!

       &nbspAnd kiss'd his country with Iscariot mouth

(Ah! foul apostate from his Father's fame!)

Then fix'd her on the Cross of deep distress,

       &nbspAnd at safe distance marks the thirsty Lance

       &nbspPierce her big side! But O! if some strange trance

The eye-lids of thy stern-brow'd Sister press,

       &nbspSeize, Mercy! thou more terrible the brand,

       &nbspAnd hurl her thunderbolts with fiercer hand!