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!