The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear
Too narrow still for each contending son;
Receive the stranger, in his fierce career
Parting thy spoils! Thy chastening is begun!
And, wresting from thy kings the guardian sword,
Foes whom thou ne’er hadst wrong’d sit proudly at thy board.
Are these infatuate too!—Oh! who hath known
A people e’er by guilt’s vain triumph blest?
The wrong’d, the vanquish’d, suffer not alone,
Brief is that joy that swells th’ oppressor’s breast.