By strength, or chance, if some survived Disease, which hosts of life deprived, That life they should devote, To venture all in Freedom's cause, To combat tyrants, and their laws, So felt near this sad spot.

Yes--and the spirit which began, (We swear by all that's great in man) That spirit shall go on, To brighten and illume the mind, 'Till tyrants vanish from mankind And Tyranny is Done.

The Poems of Philip Freneau, Volume III (of III) — Part 128

Quae Tiberine, videbis Funera, cum, tumulum praeter labore recentum! _Virg._

The Poems of Philip Freneau, Volume III (of III) — Part 128

[A] Occasioned by the general procession of many thousands of the citizens of New York on the 26th of May, 1808, to inter the bones and skeletons of american prisoners who perished in the old Jersey, and other prison ships, during the revolutionary war; and which were now first discovered by the wasting of the shores and banks on Long Island, where they had been left.--_Freneau's note._

The Poems of Philip Freneau, Volume III (of III) — Part 128

When Philip's son possess'd his native lands And train'd on grecian fields his grecian bands, In Thebes subdued, or Athens near her fall, He saw no honor, or despised it all. To be reduced to universal sway The world's vast prospect in perspective lay;-- While yet restricted to Larissa's plain He cursed his fortune for a lot so mean, On all his steps the gloom of sadness hung, And fierce resentment all his bosom stung That fortune's whim restrain'd to such a floor, Had done so little, and might do no more. Mercantile Tyre his laboring mind oppress'd, The persian throne deprived his soul of rest-- The world his stage, he meant to play his part, And unsubjected India gall'd his heart!

Look to the east where Tamerlane display'd His crescent[B] moons and nations prostrate laid, March where he would, the world before him bow'd In conquest mighty, as of conquest proud-- What was the event? let tragic story tell While sad sensations in the bosom swell-- What were the effects? in every step we trace The wasteful havoc of a royal race, Once fertile fields a howling desert made The town in ashes, or the town decay'd, Degraded man to native wildness turn'd, His prospects clouded and his commerce spurn'd-- If such the outset of this mad career What will the last disgusting scene appear, Of all he conquer'd, when no more remains Than vagrant subjects, or unpeopled plains!