And still they conquer, still they dare to bleed.
Erewhile, all uninur’d to war’s alarms,
And good and gentle was the generous swain;
But now vindictive wrath his bosom warms,
He grasps the steel, and treads the sanguine plain.
The pensive Genius of our hapless land,
Sits sadly weeping on a rock reclin’d:
But, see Hope smiling hov’ring o’er him stand,
And spread her gilded banners to the wind.
MATILDA.