The proud to humble, and th' oppress'd to raise:
Nor partial limits can their bounty know;—
It aids the helpless alien, though a foe.
Hear this, ye French, who urge the insidious strife
That arms the Indian with the murdering knife;
Who, to your foes less cruel, leave your own
Starving in sad captivity to groan.
Think of th' inhuman policy—and then
Confess, ye fight not, nor ye feel, like men.
Britons, this night your kind compassion flows