Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
Rich with the spoils of time.
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear, He gained from Heav'n ('t was all he wish'd) a friend.