Say, can ye turn from the impressive scene—
From Britain, bleeding in her dearest vein?
Can ye with negligence the ruin pass?
Or through pale interest's distorting glass
See the false statement, unreprov'd, enforce,
That annual murder is the seaman's nurse!
O tear the specious veil, which Avarice throws
Before the foul deformity of woes,
The congregated ills, the wasteful toil,
That bares our fleets, and widows half the isle.