With noblest grace, and sad, yet royal mien,
Bend from yon dome of pure, celestial blue,
Say, when a fugitive from sorrow flew,
To Britain's bosom, did she live--or die--
Unheard--uncared for, her last lingering sigh?

On yon bleak isle, behold the Eagle razed,
Who lately soaring, down on Europe gazed.
See now a jackal move about his gate,
Gloat o'er his grief, and mock his fallen State--
Howl round his nobler prisoner every hour,
How brave! to mock him now, deprived of power!

Behold, on yon lone rock the Lion bound,
Who once o'er prostrate Europe looked around;
See now, a Spaniel, yelping at the gate
Of his strong dungeon, mock his altered State.

Methinks, when dying on that lonely isle,
The sad abode of his most sad exile;
If, haply, he had touched the mournful lyre,
It breathed this "Farewell"--ere he did expire.

"I die not on this hideous rock,
As common men would die;
The world will weep above my grave,
Despite a dismal lie.

I well endure the fiercest pangs
That myriads give to one,--