II

Our enemies are fallen; other hands

Than ours have struck them, and our joy is great

To know that now at length our fears abate

From hurt and menace on great Eastern lands.

Bardling, scribbler and artist, servile bands,

From covert sneer outsigh their trembling hate,

Laughing at misery, and woe, and fal]en state,

Armies of men whole‑crushed on desolate strands.

The fallen lion every ass can kick,

That in his life, shamed to unmotioned fright,

His every move with eyes askance did trace.

I'll scorn beseems us, men for war and trick,

Whose groanings nation poured her fullest might

To take the freedom of a former [?] race.