Now in luxuriant beauty o’er their grave.
’Twas then the captives of Britannia’s war[156]
Here for their lovely southern climes afar
In bondage pined; the spell-deluded throng
Dragg’d at ambition’s chariot-wheels so long
To die—because a despot could not clasp
A sceptre fitted to his boundless grasp!
Yes! they whose march had rock’d the ancient thrones
And temples of the world—the deepening tones
Of whose advancing trumpet from repose