XL.

Shall boys the emerald from thy circlet rend, Queen of the Nations, Mistress of the Seas? Must all thy glories thus obscurely end-- A rag of Empire fluttering to the breeze! And shall Britannia vail to such as these, Barbarian traffickers in base turmoil, The sceptre at whose wave Oppression flees? No, no; while springs a leaf o’er all her soil, Shall men too spring up there to mock Sedition’s toil!