’THO’ midnight shades involve the world in gloom,
And wearied NATURE sink to soft repose;
Yet shall the spectre, starting from the tomb,
Deluge th’ OPPRESSOR’s soul with torturing woes.
Woes keener far and clad in murkier hue,
Than those, sad ACHMED, that disturb thy rest:
Thy pangs are faint, thine agitations few,
Compared with those that haunt the guilty breast.
Then ACHMED rest secure, on Heaven depend,
The Power that formed the SUN is Virtue’s Friend.