Lo! anointed by Heaven with vials of wrath,
Behold where he flies on his desolate path!
Now in darkness, and billows, he sweeps from my sight:
Rise! Rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight!
’Tis finish’d.—Their thunders are hush’d on the moors;
Culloden is lost, and my country deplores.
But where is the iron-bound prisoner! Where?
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.
Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish’d, forlorn,
Like a limb from his country, cast bleeding, and torn?