Samuel Taylor Coleridge — Pitt

Not always should the Tear's ambrosial dew        &nbspRoll its soft anguish down thy furrow'd cheek!        &nbspNot always heaven-breath'd tones of Suppliance meek Beseem thee, Mercy! Yon dark Scowler view, Who with proud words of dear-lov'd Freedom came—        &nbspMore blasting than the mildew from the South!        &nbspAnd kiss'd his country with Iscariot mouth (Ah! foul apostate from his Father's fame!) Then fix'd her on the Cross of deep distress,        &nbspAnd at safe distance marks the thirsty Lance        &nbspPierce her big side! But O! if some strange trance The eye-lids of thy stern-brow'd Sister press,        &nbspSeize, Mercy! thou more terrible the brand,        &nbspAnd hurl her thunderbolts with fiercer hand!