"From nature constant still
Kings hold not worlds or empires at their will."—Ed. 1795.
MANHATTAN CITY[241]
A Picture
Fair mistress of a warlike State,
What crime of thine deserves this fate?
While other ports to Freedom rise,
In thee that flame of honour dies.
With wars and horrors overspread,
Seven years, and more, we fought and bled:
Seized British hosts and Hessian bands,
And all—to leave you in their hands.
While British tribes forsake our plains,
In you, a ghastly herd[242] remains:
Must vipers to your halls[243] repair;
Must poison taint that purest air?
Ah! what a scene torments the eye:
In thee, what putrid monsters lie!
What dirt, and mud, and mouldering walls,
Burnt domes, dead dogs, and funerals!
Those grassy banks, where oft we stood,[244]
And fondly viewed the passing flood;
There, owls obscene, that daylight shun,
Pollute the waters, as they run.