Not Persia's Monarch could, unmov'd, survey <br />Those num'rous Hosts, which Time must sweep away: <br />He wept Misfortunes of a distant Date; <br />I mourn the Rigour of my instant Fate: <br />The dreaded Hour approaching fast I see, <br />When you, alas! will all be dead to me. <br />Then cease to wonder, if my Bosom rise, <br />And Tears, unbidden, rush into my Eyes; <br />'Tis thus, and only thus, a grateful Breast <br />Pours out those Thanks, which cannot be express'd: <br />For, O Hibernia! when I quit thy Coast, <br />Such Friends I leave, as few could ever boast.<br /><br />Mary Barber<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-apology-to-the-earl-of-orrery/
