When Superstition rais'd her threat'ning hand,
And scatter's horror round the bleeding land,
On sad Britannia's ravag'd plains she stood,
Drench'd in one fatal stream of martyr'd blood;
O'er ev'ry scene, with fell delight, she flew,
And smil'd, exulting, at the dreadful view;
Religion's sacred truths, though once design'd
To banish error from the darken'd mind,
Avail'd not here; her pure celestial light,
Lost in the gloom of superstition's night,
Drooping, beheld the fatal torrent roll
Resistless terrors o'er the doubtful soul;
Till bright Eliza came, whose matchless sway
Call'd forth the dawn of fair religion's day;
Cherish'd the genial influence as it rose,
Dispell'd their errors and reliev'd their woes.
Shall Britain then, who boasts th'unrivall'd deed,
Relentless, see the guiltless victim bleed;
Amid the horrors of tormenting pain
He seeks for mercy, but he seeks in vain;
Affrighted Mercy quits the guilty land,
Where grim Oppression waves her tyrant hand;
Where, to the savage herd, a harmless prey,
Sinks faint beneath the fervid beam of day;
Or, haply trembling in the midnight air,
Sunk in the deepest gloom of low despair;
Or burning thirst and furious want, combin'd,
With wild distraction fire his glowing mind,
Till death restores to him eternal rest,
And calms the tumults of his troubled breast.