And nearly sunk is O.P.’s name.
Judgment suspended o’er their head,
Above, below, they deal the blow,
And o’er the plain our flying squadrons spread;
The brothers, smiling at our dismal doom,
Deep stamp their vengeance strong, and dark’ning terrors gloom.
But stay, ah! stay, nor thus forlorn
Leave me unbless’d, unaided here to mourn.
In yon dark cloud, that skirts the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes;