That funeral dirge to darkness hath resign'd Poor fetter'd man! I hear thee whispering low 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 Libya'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 Timour's iron sceptre sway'd, Whose marshall'd hosts, the lions of the plain, From Scythia's northern mountains to the main, Raged o'er your plunder'd shrines and altars bare, With blazing torch and gory cimitar,— Stunn'd with the cries of death each gentle gale, And bathed in blood the verdure of the vale! Yet could no pangs the immortal spirit tame, When Brama's children perish'd for his name ; The martyr smiled beneath avenging power, And braved the tyrant in his torturing hour! When Europe sought your subject realms to gain, To wash the stain of blood's eternal dye? And, in the march of nations, led the van ! But hark! as bow'd to earth the Bramin kneels, And solemn sounds that awe the listening mind, "Foes of mankind! (her guardian spirits say,) Revolving ages bring the bitter day, When Heaven's unerring arm shall fall on you, |