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His crime the smooth-tongued flatterers conquest name,Loud in his praises swell the notes of Fame.Oblivion marks the murdering poor man's tomb,Brood o'er his memory contempt and gloom;His crimes are blazoned in deformed array,His virtues sink, they fade for aye away.Snatch then the sword from nerveless virtue's hand,Boldly grasp native jurisdiction's brand;For justice, poisoned at its source, must yieldThe power to each its shivered sword to wield,To dash oppression from the throne of vice,To nip the buds of slavery as they rise.Does jurisprudence slighter crimes restrain,And seek their vices to controul in vain?Kings are but men, if thirst of meanest swayHas not that title even snatched away.—
The fainting Indian, on his native plains,Writhes to superior power's unnumbered pains;
