Eugenio

But why alas commemorate the dead? And pass those glorious heroes by, who yet Breathe the same air and see the light with us? The dead, Acasto, are but empty names And he who dy'd to day the same to us As he who dy'd a thousand years ago. A Johnson lives, among the sons of fame Well known, conspicuous as the morning star Among the lesser lights: A patriot skill'd In all the glorious arts of peace or war. He for Britannia gains the savage race, Unstable as the sea, wild as the winds, Cruel as death, and treacherous as hell, Whom none but he by kindness yet could win, None by humanity could gain their souls, Or bring from woods and subteranean dens The skulking crew, before a Johnson rose, Pitying their num'rous tribes: ah how unlike The Cortez' and Acosta's, pride of Spain Whom blood and murder only satisfy'd. Behold their doleful regions overflow'd With gore, and blacken'd with ten thousand deaths From Mexico to Patagonia far, Where howling winds sweep round the southern cape, And other suns and other stars arise!