Where yon Green-promontory's summit soars,
The tawny sail our surging bulwark braves,
Wafted by cruel winds, and treacherous waves;
Europe's pale sons direct the barb'rous prow,
Fraught with dire stores and instruments of woe.
The tainted freight, with false luxurious glares
Of dang'rous hue, the splendid bait prepares;
Beneath the semblance of whose dazzling store
Lurks the dire barb, that taints and thins our shore.
Say, shall these tyrants with inhuman aim