STRACHEY! now may’st thou praise thy God
That thy tired feet long since retrod
Thy ancient hall, thy native fields,
And spurn’d the wealth that India yields.
Millions were grateful for thy care,
For wrong redrest and guilt laid bare:
Short-lived is Gratitude, of all
The Virtues first to faint and fall.
That court where thy tribunal stood
Is dyed and drencht with British blood.
Mothers and infants lie around
Hewn piecemeal: but from one worse wound
Brave husbands save a fond chaste breast,
Pierce it, and there again find rest.