Within the blacken'd hollow of thy tube,

Affrighted sees the darksome shades of Death.

Not only mourning groves, but human tears,

The weeping Widow's tears, the Orphan's cries,

Sadly deplore that e'er thy powers were known.

Yet let thy Advent be the Soldier's song,

No longer doom'd to grapple with the Foe

With Teeth and Nails—When close in view, and in

Each-other's grasp, to grin, and hack, and stab;

Then tug his horrid weapon from one breast

To hide it in another:—with clear hands

He now expertly poizing thy bright tube,

At distance kills, unknowing and unknown;

Sees not the wound he gives, nor hears the shriek

Of him whose breast he pierces.... GUNPOWDER!

(O! let Humanity rejoice) how much

The Soldier's fearful work is humaniz'd,

Since thy momentous birth—stupendous power.

  In Britain, where the hills and fertile plains,

Like her historic page, are overspread

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