The miscellaneous works of David Humphreys Late Minister Plenipotentiary from the United States of America to the Court of Madrid |
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 | The miscellaneous works of David Humphreys |  |
Live there whose minds, perverted, pleasure find
In forging fetters for subdu'd mankind!
From conquest think to gain a glorious name,
And raise on human wretchedness their fame!
'Tis time to call such monsters from their crimes,
Scourges of heav'n, and tyrants for their times.
My soul abhors injustice—and shall wrong
Escape the sting of my vindictive song?
Enrag'd, shall I capitulations make
With vaunting conqu'rors, for false pity's sake?
Men must I see, whom slaves as gods adore,
Wreath their proud brows with laurels dipt in gore?
Soon shall their laurels, pluck'd by force unjust,
Fall immature and wither in the dust.
Nor less, if justice rules this universe,
Though prosp'rous still, shall pangs the tyrant pierce.
Behold the wretch to torment doom'd ere dead!
What nightly visions haunt his troubled bed?
Him pomp nor pleasure lulls, or riots din,
While conscience holds a holy court within:
Vain all that charm'd before, triumphal cars,
The wrecks of nations and the spoils of wars.
Mantled in blood, what spectres pale appear!
What moans and cries assail his startled ear!
Then at still midnight's hour, his murd'rous mind
To reason-racking agonies consign'd,
Shrinks as the shadowy shapes terrific rise—
Shivers his flesh, his hair stands stiff, his eyes
With frenzy staring from their sockets start,
While gnaws th' undying worm his anguish'd heart.
In forging fetters for subdu'd mankind!
From conquest think to gain a glorious name,
And raise on human wretchedness their fame!
'Tis time to call such monsters from their crimes,
Scourges of heav'n, and tyrants for their times.
My soul abhors injustice—and shall wrong
Escape the sting of my vindictive song?
Enrag'd, shall I capitulations make
With vaunting conqu'rors, for false pity's sake?
Men must I see, whom slaves as gods adore,
Wreath their proud brows with laurels dipt in gore?
Soon shall their laurels, pluck'd by force unjust,
Fall immature and wither in the dust.
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Though prosp'rous still, shall pangs the tyrant pierce.
Behold the wretch to torment doom'd ere dead!
What nightly visions haunt his troubled bed?
Him pomp nor pleasure lulls, or riots din,
While conscience holds a holy court within:
Vain all that charm'd before, triumphal cars,
The wrecks of nations and the spoils of wars.
Mantled in blood, what spectres pale appear!
What moans and cries assail his startled ear!
Then at still midnight's hour, his murd'rous mind
To reason-racking agonies consign'd,
Shrinks as the shadowy shapes terrific rise—
Shivers his flesh, his hair stands stiff, his eyes
With frenzy staring from their sockets start,
While gnaws th' undying worm his anguish'd heart.
| The miscellaneous works of David Humphreys | |