Ah, no: Yon Indian will not go,
No Scythian deigns to bend his bow.
No sullen Negroe shoots the flood,
How, slaves! — Or am I understood!
All, all, my empty power disown,
I turn, and find myself alone;
'Tis Fancy's vain illusion all,
Nor Moor nor Scythian waits my call.
Call I command, can I consign?
Alas, what earthly thing is mine!