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Oh! for a tongue to curse the slave,

Whose treason, like a deadly blight, Comes o'er the councils of the brave,

And blasts tlK-in in their hour of might. May life's unblcss d cup for him Be drugg'd with treacheries to the brim, With hopes, that but allure to fly,

With joys, that banish while he sips Like Drad-sea fruits, that tempt the eye,

But turn to ashes on the lips; His country's curs?, his children's shame, Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame, May he, at last, with lips of flame, On the parch'd desert, thirsting die, While lakes that shone in mockery nigh Are fading off, untouch'd, untasted, Like the once glorious hopes he blasted! And, when from earth his spirit flies,

Just prophet, let the damn'd one dwell Full in the sight of paradise,

Beholding heav'n, and feeling hell!

Moore.

Remorse, while the party against whom we have offended still retains its resentment, and regards us with disdain, scarcely raises the outermost cuticle of the heart: it is from the hourm which we are forgiven that the true remorse commences.