Not Persia's Monarch could, unmov'd, survey br Those num'rous Hosts, which Time must sweep away: br He wept Misfortunes of a distant Date; br I mourn the Rigour of my instant Fate: br The dreaded Hour approaching fast I see, br When you, alas! will all be dead to me. br Then cease to wonder, if my Bosom rise, br And Tears, unbidden, rush into my Eyes; br 'Tis thus, and only thus, a grateful Breast br Pours out those Thanks, which cannot be express'd: br For, O Hibernia! when I quit thy Coast, br Such Friends I leave, as few could ever boast.