And sees pale virtue carted in her stead.
Lo! at the wheels of her triumphal car,
Old England’s genius, rough with many a scar,
Dragg’d in the dust! his arms hang idly round,
His flag inverted trails along the ground:
Our youth, all liveried o’er with foreign gold,
Before her dance, behind her crawl the old!
See thronging millions to the Pagod run,
And offer country, parent, wife, or son!
Hear her black trumpet thro’ the land proclaim,