In eastern grandeur proudly dost arise
Beneath thy canopy of deep-blue skies;
While streams that bear thee treasures in their wave,
Thy citron-groves and myrtle-gardens lave:
Mourn, for thy doom is fixed—the days of fear,
Of chains, of wrath, of bitterness, are near!
Within, around thee, are the trophied graves
Of kings and chiefs—their children shall be slaves.
Fair are thy halls, thy domes majestic swell,
But there a race that rear’d them not shall dwell;