Classic Poem

God defends th' oppress'd from harm,
Throws around the slave his arm;
Despots may his will oppose,
But, behold! his anger glows!

See! his awful arm he bares,
Bends his bow, his spear prepares;
From his magazines of wrath,
Pours his fury on their path.

Where's the despot's boasting now?
Fill'd with pangs, behold him bow!
What's the fruit of all his care?
Worthless dust and empty air!

Where the treach'rous pit he made,
For himself a snare he laid;
Where destruction he intends,
On himself the storm descends.