CANNING, in english and in latin strong,
Was quite an infant in each other tongue.
Proud, yet an easy embassy he sought
From the kind comrade he traduced and fought:
Poet, yet certain ’twas no poet’s dream
That stil the Tagus rolls a golden stream.
And now is sent the son he thought a fool
O’er restless India’s tottering realm to rule!
And shall not England with stern hand chastise
Those who her warnings and her woe despise?
For every thousand let but only one,
The basest for the bravest men, atone.
She has spent all, or nearly all, her shot,
But all her timber she (thank God!) has not.