Yet more: nor thou the muse's voice disdain,
Who fondly tries to soothe a Father's pain —
Let thy calm eye survey the suffering ball:
See kingdoms round thee verging to their fall!
What spring had promis'd, and what autumn yields,
The bread of thousands ravish'd from their fields!
See youth and age, th'ignoble and the great,
Swept to one grave, in one promiscuous fate!
Hear Europe groan! hear all her nations mourn!
And be a private wound with patience borne.