Hold your mad hands! for ever on your plain

    Must the gorged vulture clog his beak with blood?

    For ever must your Nigers tainted flood

  Roll to the ravenous shark his banquet slain?

  Hold your mad hands! what daemon prompts to rear

    The arm of Slaughter? on your savage shore

    Can hell-sprung Glory claim the feast of gore,

  With laurels water'd by the widow's tear

  Wreathing his helmet crown? lift high the spear!

    And like the desolating whirlwinds sweep,

    Plunge ye yon bark of anguish in the deep;

  For the pale fiend, cold-hearted Commerce there

  Breathes his gold-gender'd pestilence afar,

  And calls to share the prey his kindred Daemon War.