O MIRA! to the future blind,
Th' insidious foe is close behind:
Guard, guard your treasure, while you can;
Unless this God should be the man.
For lo! the clouds, at his known call,
Are closing round — they burst! they fall!
While at the charmer, all-aghast,
He pours whole winter in a blast:
Nor cares, in his impetuous mood,
If navies founder on the flood;
If BRITAIN's coast be left as bare
As he resolves to leave the fair.
Here, Gods resemble human breed;
The world be damn'd — so they succeed.