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“Of British arms, another victory!”

Triumphant words, through all the land's length sped.

Triumphant words, but, being interpreted,

Words of ill sound, woful as words can be.

Another carnage by the drear Red Sea —

Another efflux of a sea more red!

Another bruising of the hapless head

Of a wrong'd people yearning to be free.

Another blot on her great name, who stands

Confounded, left intolerably alone

With the dilating spectre of her own

Dark sin, uprisen from yonder spectral sands:

Penitent more than to herself is known;

England, appall'd by her own crimson hands.