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ANTISTROPHE I.

Alas! what a Torrent of Tears
Continually stream'd from these Eyes,
When fill'd with a thousand sad Fears,
To Pyrates we first fell a Prize?

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When War and Oppression's strong Hand
Had laid our proud Cities all waste,
And we, a disconsolate Band,
Aboard their black Vessels were plac'd;
Thence savagely barter'd for Gold,
We came to this barb'rous Land;
And there to Captivity sold,
Around the dire Altar we stand,
Ordain'd on the Priestess to wait,
And assist at these horrible Rites!
For such an unfortunate State
Have we chang'd all our former Delights.
The Wretches long practis'd to mourn,
Perceive not the Weight of their Grief;
A Change in their Fortune must turn
To a better, and bring them Relief.
But they are completely unbless'd,
Who, bred and accustōm'd to Bliss,
Like us, on a sudden oppress'd,
Are plung'd in a hopeless Abyss.