O melancholy ruin, that wert Greece ! 
What little comfort canst thou take from time ? 
Years pass, in shameful war or sordid peace— 
What god can recreate thee, the sublime ? 
Alas !  let Lethe roll her sleepy seas 
Over thy ruined clime. 
 
O piteous fallen tyranny of Spain ! 
What dogs are tearing at thy bowels yet ? 
Let thine own King, saith God, resume his reign ! 
Loyal and happy seasons may forget 
The ancient scars.  Thy moon is on the wane ? 
Thy sun may never set ! 
 
And thou, foul oligarchy of the West, 
Thou, soiled with bribes and stained with treason’s stain, 
Thou, heart of coin beneath a brazen breast, 
Rotten republic, prostitute of gain ! 
Thou, murderer of the bravest and the best 
That fringed thy southern main ! 
 
The doom is spoken.  Thine own children tear 
Thy cruel heart and thy corrupted tongue ; 
Thy toilers snare thee in thine own foul snare, 
And sting thee where thy gilded worms had stung. 
The politician and the millionaire 
Regain maternal dung.
 
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