Where trampling Tyranny with Fate
And black Revenge gigantic goes:
Hark, how the dying infants shriek,
How hopeless Age is sunk in woes!
Fly, mortals, from that fated land,
Tho' rivers roll o'er golden sand:
Tho' birds in shades of Cassia sing,
Harvests and fruits spontaneous rise,
No storms disturb the smiling skies,
And each sost breeze rich odours bring.