| The Wiccamical Chaplet | |
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ANTISTROPHE I.
But, ah! how sunk her veiled Head,
Untimely dimm'd by Gaul's o'ershadowing pow'r
And shalt thou rise, fair isle, no more?
Thy patriot heroes sleep among the dead:
Thy gallant virtues all are fled;
Save Fortitude, sole refuge from despair.
O Gaul, oppression's blood-stain'd heir
Let me not tell how, taught by thee,
England's rude sons smote Liberty
On Vincent's sable rock, her Indian throne:
Not unaveng'd; for in her cause the sky
Storms and fiery vapours pour'd,
While Pestilence wav'd wide his tainted sword
To smite [OMITTED]
| The Wiccamical Chaplet | |
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