When foes with cruel hate beset me round

Verse 1

When foes with cruel hate beset me round, My fame when impious tongues with slander wound, Quite destitute of aid, to thee I fly, To thee, dread father, and thou hear'st my cry.

Verse 2

O thou, who art to simple truth a friend, And dost the honest, guileless heart defend. From sland'rous lips and undermining tongues Relieve my soul, and chase away her wrongs.

Verse 3

Ye villain-herd, who thus assault my fame, Your tongues more fatal than devouring flame, Who wound more deep with your invenom'd words, Than pointed arrows, or than keenest swords; What sudden vengeance shall your souls await; What dreadful judgments shall I deprecate?

Verse 4

Alas! the fatal miseries I feel, Amid the hostile croud constrain'd to dwell, With men, who to humanity are lost; And all their cruelties for virtues boast!

Verse 5

For blood they thirst, and wars and rapines please, Nor have they joy in the delights of peace;

Verse 6

Fair peace they hate; from her embrace they fly; War fills their thought, and furnishes their joy.