Could mock the groans of fellow-men, and bear
The curse of kingdoms peopled with despair;
Could stamp disgrace on man’s polluted name,
And barter, with their gold, eternal shame!
But hark! as bowed to earth the Brahmin kneels,
From heavenly climes propitious thunder peals!
Of India’s fate her guardian spirits tell,
Prophetic murmurs breathing on the shell,
And solemn sounds that awe the listening mind,
Roll on the azure paths of every wind.