Drawn captive at my conqu'ring chariot wheels,
Shall kneel before thee.
Zap. Pomp and pow'r are toys,
Which e'en the mind at ease may well disdain:
But oh! what mockery is the tinsel pride
Of splendour, when the mind
Lies desolate within!—Such, such is mine!
O'erwhelm'd with ills, and dead to ev'ry joy;
Envy me not this last request, to die
In my dear father's tents.