Pent in this barren corner of the isle,
Where partial fortune never deign'd to smile;
Like nature's bastards, reaping for our share
What was rejected by the lawful heir;
Unknown amongst the nations of the earth,
Or only known to raise contempt and mirth;
Long free, because the race of Roman braves
Thought it not worth their while to make us slaves;
Then into bondage by that nation brought,
Whose ruin we for ages vainly sought,
Whom still with unslack'd hate we view, and still,
The pow'r of mischief lost, retain the will;
Consider'd as the refuse of mankind,
A mass till the last moment left behind,
Which frugal nature doubted, as it lay,
Whether to stamp with life, or throw away;
Which, form'd in haste, was planted in this nook,
But never enter'd in Creation's book;
Branded as traitors, who, for love of gold,
Would sell their God, as once their King they sold;
Long have we born this mighty weight of ill,
These vile injurious taunts, and bear them still,
But times of happier note are now at hand,
And the full promise of a better land:
like the  having trod,
For the fix'd term of years ordain'd by God,
A barren desart, we shall sieze rich plains
Where milk with honey flows, and plenty reigns.
With some few natives join'd, some  few,
Who worship int'rest, and our track pursue,
There shall we, tho' the wretched people grieve,
Ravage at large, nor ask the owner's leave.