My country bleeds, and in its ruines lie
Thousands. My all's perhaps condemned to die.
Amaz'd, o'erwhelmed, without one cheering ray,
From those dread scenes, when shall I wing my way?
To Thee, great God, I lift my fainting soul,
Who fierce, devouring passions canst controul.
Nature, convulsive, wrapt in furious forms,
Calms at thy word. Contend shall mortal worms?
If partial ill promotes the gen'ral good,
Tho' nature shrinks, I kiss the angry rod.