If “music's charms can bend the knotted oak,”
And soothe to rapture e'en the savage soul;
Thy charm, Oppression—yes—thy charm is broke,
Down to thy hell—impetuous fiend roll.

For now Benevolence strikes th' heav'nly lyre,
And meek-ey'd Virtue re-ascends her throne;
While each soft bosom pants with fond desire,
To vent a flame congenial with thy own.

A flame inspir'd by, ah! no venal cause,
But deeds that beam refulgent to the view;
'Tis Nature dictates—man asserts her laws,
Consigned to many—but perform'd by few.

'Tis not thy name can grace the envy'd verse
That manly pleads Compassion's cause sublime;
Ages shall oft the glowing theme rehearse,
And future poets imitate from thine.