And a chill torpor cramps his mind.
Like the poor Starling in his cage,
He fluttering spends his idle rage;
And all his cry, &c.
What, though when war and tumult rag’d,
His country all his soul engag’d;
No trace is left, no record sav’d,
Of what, to save a state, he brav’d:
Like the poor Starling in his cage,
He’s doom’d to pine, to fret, to rage;