The widowed Indian, when her lord expires,
Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral fires!
So falls the heart at Thraldom’s bitter sigh!
So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty!
But not to Lybia’s barren climes alone,
To Chili, or the wild Siberian zone,
Belong the wretched heart and haggard eye,
Degraded worth, and poor misfortune’s sigh!—
Ye orient realms, where Ganges’ waters run!
Prolific fields! dominions of the sun!